Tuesday ~ February 9, 2016

There is a thing of me that dreamed of trees
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere...
I would that it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

(Mary Oliver, 1935 -   )