Mary Oliver Poems
|83.||At Blackwater Pond||1/13/2003|
|85.||After Arguing Against The Contention That Art Must Come From Discontent||1/13/2003|
|88.||When Death Comes||1/3/2003|
|92.||A Dream Of Trees||3/30/2005|
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 ...
I have been thinking
like the lilies
that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall
in the edge of the wind,
and have no shelter
from the tongues of the cattle,