And 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.

Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

Do you cherish your humble and silky life?

What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.

Who do you want to be in your one wild and precious life?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?