Mary Oliver Poems
|81.||At Blackwater Pond||1/13/2003|
|83.||A Letter From Home||3/30/2005|
|85.||The Summer Day||1/13/2003|
|86.||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 see or hear
that more or less
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack