And there you are
on the shore,

fitful and thoughtful, trying
to attach them to an idea â€”
some news of your own life.
But the lilies

are slippery and wildâ€”they are
devoid of meaning, they are
simply doing,
from the deepest

spurs of their being,
what they are impelled to do
every summer.
And so, dear sorrow, are you.

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver

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