What misery to be afraid of death. What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.
Mary Oliver... the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.
Mary OliverA dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.
Mary OliverAnd there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea — some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wild—they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you.
Mary Oliver