Morning poems
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One
© Mary Oliver
The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
Why I Wake Early
© Mary Oliver
Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
Peonies
© Mary Oliver
This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
The Buddha's Last Instruction
© Mary Oliver
"Make of yourself a light"
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
Some Things The World Gave
© Mary Oliver
1
Times in the morning early
when it rained and the long gray
buildings came forward from darkness
offering their windows for light.
Sleeping In The Forest
© Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
At Great Pond
© Mary Oliver
At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines,
Flare
© Mary Oliver
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
The Swan
© Mary Oliver
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
Poem (The spirit likes to dress up...)
© Mary Oliver
The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,
Cold Poem
© Mary Oliver
I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.
Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith
© Mary Oliver
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear
The Swan
© Charles Baudelaire
ANDROMACHE, I think of you! The stream,
The poor, sad mirror where in bygone days
Shone all the majesty of your widowed grief,
The lying Simo?s flooded by your tears,
The Temptation
© Charles Baudelaire
THE Demon, in my chamber high,
This morning came to visit me,
And, thinking he would find some fault,
He whispered: "I would know of thee
The Sick Muse
© Charles Baudelaire
I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,
