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Quote by Mary Oliver

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A Thousand Mornings: Poems

This volume features a series of poems that delve into a wide range of subjects, including nature, love, and personal reflection. more

Author

Mary Oliver
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

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“And yet the appearance of death was just as awe-inspiring in this little man as it is in a great one: a man who so recently had been walking around, moving, playing whist, signing various documents, and frequently seen amongst the officials with his beetling eyebrows and twitching eye, was now laid out on a table, and the twitch was quite gone from his left eye, although one eyebrow was still raised in an interrogative arch. As to what the deceased was asking, whether he sought to know why he had died or why he had lived--that only God can say.”

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“And anything that the boys could carry, they made off with. Combs, lamps, silly little things, even bridal wreaths, everything went. As if we'd had years of life ahead of us. They looted to take their minds off their troubles, to make it look as if they had years before them. Everybody likes that feeling. As far as they were concerned, gunfire was nothing but noise. That's why wars can keep going. Even the people who make them, who fight in them, don't really get the picture. Even with a bullet in their gut, they'd go on picking up old shoes that 'might come in handy.' The way a sheep, lying on its side in a meadow, will keep on grazing with its dying breath. Most people don't die until the last moment; others start twenty years in advance, sometimes more. Those are the unfortunates.”

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“Helen looked around the room as though if he just looked too, he would see it. Would see the memories that she faced in every corner. She wanted to explain, but instead, her mind darted to the last time she had visited home, the Christmas before when she and her parents had only given gifts to fill the bomb shelter. The bleakness of war had penetrated their house that night, the depressing presents and rationed food nothing compared to the vacant seats around the table. The quietness had choked them. Now its fingers curled only around her throat.”

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