Monday, March 11, 2013

The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers- by Mary Oliver

The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers

Who can guess the luna's sadness who lives so
briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone
longing to be ground down, to be part again of
something livelier? Who can imagine in what
heaviness the rivers remember their original

Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile
time with them. And I suggest them to you also,
that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life
be richer than it is, that you bow to the earth as
you feel how it actually is, that we- so cleaver, and
ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained- are only
one design of the moving, the vivacious many.

by Mary Oliver, from A Thousand Mornings, 2012


  1. What a beautiful poem. Thank you for posting it.

  2. Hi Sam. Love this poem! Thank you. I have her book 'A Thousand Mornings' in front of me right now, and I just noticed a small typo in yours. Instead of "so clever" you have "cleaver". Just wanted to let you know, because I'd like to link to this page in my blog.