Mary Oliver


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Mary Oliver (born September 10, 1935) is an American poet who has won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. The New York Times described her as "far and away, [America's] best-selling poet".

Mary Oliver was born to Edward William and Helen M. V. Oliver on September 10, 1935, in Maple Heights, Ohio, a semi-rural suburb of Cleveland. Her father was a social studies ... more »

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Quotations

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  • ''Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life. It's an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.''
    Mary Oliver (b. 1935), U.S. poet. Georgia Review, p. 733 (Winter 1981).
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Comments about Mary Oliver

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  • Michele Ann Gill (3/16/2018 8:34:00 PM)

    Mary Oliver is such an exceptional, unique poet and she inspires me to keep writing. She's absolutely right about poetry being a way of life I have a propensity to write and must keep going. Her work is so beautiful, direct, poignant, effortless and intelligent, I often wonder, why do I bother?

  • The Van Man (2/9/2018 8:18:00 AM)

    slober slober slober slober

  • your nan (2/9/2018 8:16:00 AM)

    this gave me klamidia

  • The Van Man (2/9/2018 8:16:00 AM)

    Totally not a creep with a white van

  • The Van Man (2/9/2018 8:16:00 AM)

    hey I am a total poet like peeps

  • The Van Man (2/9/2018 8:13:00 AM)

    Gimme sum more peeps I am your only one

  • liam k (2/8/2018 8:18:00 AM)

    hey nick f im looking over at u right now

  • Marc H. (1/18/2018 12:24:00 PM)

    Searching (on behalf of a friend) for a Mary Oliver poem that contains the words tupelo and furrow. Can any of you provide the title of that poem? Thanks in advance!

  • suck a dick (12/5/2017 11:33:00 AM)

    suck a dig niggerfaggot

  • Loppo Louie Loppo Louie (3/8/2017 11:44:00 AM)

    How true of this.
    it just rolls with the
    flow....

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Best Poem of Mary Oliver

A Dream Of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him ...

Read the full of A Dream Of Trees
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