The Poet with His Face in
His Hands
You want to cry aloud for
your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need anymore of that sound.
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need anymore of that sound.
So if you're going to do it
and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the
forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a
cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be
disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the
water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(New and Selected Poems Volume
Two)
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