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Quote by Mary Oliver

“Oh, yesterday, that one, we all cry out. Oh, that one! How rich and possible everything was! How ripe, ready, lavish, and filled with excitement--how hopeful we were on those summer days, under the clean, white racing clouds. Oh, yesterday!”

Book:Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems

Work

Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems

This volume brings together various forms of literary expression, including prose, prose poems, and traditional poems, to delve into the profound impact of winter on individuals and the natural world. The collection invites readers to reflect on the beauty, challenges, and emotions associated with the winter season. more

Author

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is a renowned American poet, born on September 10, 1935. Her poetry is known for its profound depiction of the natural world and delicate insights into life. Oliver's style is simple and direct, which has won her a wide audience. more

“It was not a choice of writing or not writing. It was a choice of loving my life or not loving my life. To keep writing was always a first priority.... I worked probably 25 years by myself.... Just writing and working, not trying to publish much. Not giving readings. A longer time than people really are willing to commit before they want to go public.”

People Want Giving Writing Trying Years Firsts Choices Reading Willing Priorities Commit Publish

Author:Mary Oliver

“I learned to build bookshelves and brought books to my room, gathering them around me thickly. I read by day and into the night. I thought about perfectibility, and deism, and adjectives, and clouds, and the foxes, I locked my door, from the inside, and leaped from the roof and went to the woods, by day or darkness.”

Book Night Rooms Darkness Doors Clouds Woods Locked Roof Foxes Gathering Adjectives Bookshelves Deism

Book:Upstream: Selected Essays

Source: Upstream: Selected Essays

“How many mysteries have you seen in your lifetime? How many nets pulled full over the boat's side, each silver body ready or not falling into submission? How many roses in early summer uncurling above the pale sands then falling back in unfathomable willingness? And what can you say? Glory to the rose and the leaf, to the seed, to the silver fish. Glory to time and the wild fields, and to joy. And to grief's shock and torpor, its near swoon.”