By Mary Oliver
In 1000 Mornings, Mary Oliver returns to the imagery that has come to outline her life's paintings, transporting us to the marshland and sea coast of her liked domestic, Provincetown, Massachusetts. no matter if learning the leaves of a tree or mourning her precious puppy Percy, Oliver is open to the lessons inside the smallest of moments and explores with startling readability, humor, and kindness the mysteries of our day-by-day event.
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Additional resources for A Thousand Mornings: Poems
Of man—the semblance and effect Of God and love—the saint elect For infinite applause— To rule the land, and briny broad, To be laborious in his laud, And heroes in his cause. The world—the clustering spheres He made, The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; The multitudinous abyss, Where Secrecy remains in bliss, And Wisdom hides her skill. Trees, plants, and flowers—of virtuous root; Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, Choice gums and precious balm; Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, And with the sweetness of the gale Enrich the thankful psalm.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine: Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; OLIVER GOLDSMITH Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they: While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.