West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems

by Mary Oliver

from one tragedy to the next and from one foolishness to the next.

am capable of pondering the most detailed knowledge, and the most fastened-up, impenetrable mystery, at the same time.

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary. If it were necessary, it would have stayed simple; it would not agitate our hearts with ever-present loveliness and ever-cresting ambiguity; it would not dream, on its long white bones, of turning into song.

You don’t ever know where a sentence will take you, depending on its roll and fold.

here is such happiness when you speak their names! here is such unforced love! here is such shyness such courage! here is the shining rudimentary soul

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?