Mary Oliver

Rhythm is one of the most powerful of pleasures, and when we feel a pleasurable rhythm we hope it will continue. When it does, it grows sweeter.

I love the line of Flaubert about observing things very intensely. I think our duty as writers begins not with our own feelings, but with the powers of observing.

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!_x000D_ What a task_x000D_ to ask_x000D_ of anything, or anyone,_x000D_ yet it is ours,_x000D_ and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

Almost anything is too much. I am trying in my poems to have the reader be the experiencer. I do not want to be there. It is not even a walk we take together.

To find a new word that is accurate and different, you have to be alert for it.

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.

So this is how you swim inward. So this is how you flow outwards. So this is how you pray.

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

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

I very much wished not to be noticed, and to be left alone, and I sort of succeeded.

Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dak trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more the prettiness.

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

As long as you're dancing, you can break the rules.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers. Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. (from “Mysteries, Yes”)

When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.

Joy is not made to be a crumb. (Don't Hesitate)

You are young. So you know everything. You leap into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without doubt,I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.

All night my heart makes its way however it can over the rough ground of uncertainties, but only until night meets and then is overwhelmed by morning, the light deepening, the wind easing and just waiting, as I too wait (and when have I ever been disappointed?) for redbird to sing

Always there is something worth saying about glory, about gratitude.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

How heron comes It is a negligence of the mind not to notice how at dusk heron comes to the pond and stands there in his death robes, perfect servant of the system, hungry, his eyes full of attention, his wings pure light