“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.” BodyJoyFallSidesGriefMysteryFieldsReadySummerGloryRoseLifetimeFishesSeedsBoatShockSandSilverWillingnessPaleLeafsSubmissionUnfathomable Book:Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver Source: Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
“Posthumous fame is a plant of tardy growth, for our body must be the seed of it; or we may liken it to a torch, which nothing but the last spark of life can light up; or we may compare it to the trumpet of the archangel, for it is blown over the dead; but unlike that awful blast, it is of earth, not of heaven, and can neither rouse nor raise us.” MayBodyLightEarthLastsHeavenGrowthFameRaisesPlantSeedsAwfulCompareSparksBlastTrumpetsTorchesLight UpArchangelPosthumous Book:Lacon: Or, Many Things in Few Words, Addressed to Those who Think Source: Lacon: Or, Many Things in Few Words, Addressed to Those who Think