“Why I Wake Early Hello, sun in my face.Hello, you who made the morningand spread it over the fieldsand into the faces of the tulipsand the nodding morning glories,and into the windows of, even, themiserable and the crotchety – best preacher that ever was,dear star, that just happensto be where you are in the universeto keep us from ever-darkness,to ease us with warm touching,to hold us in the great hands of light –good morning, good morning, good morning. Watch, now, how I start the dayin happiness, in kindness.”

“Hello, sun in my face. Hello you who made the morning and spread it over the fields...Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.”

“Every morning I walk like this aroundthe pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.”

“And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. "Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?”

“The woods that I loved as a child are entirely gone. The woods that I loved as a young adult are gone. The woods that most recently I walked in are not gone, but they’re full of bicycle trails. And this is happening to the world, and I think it is very very dangerous for our future generations, those of us who believe that the world is not only necessary to us in its pristine state, but it is in itself an act of some kind of spiritual thing. I said once, and I think this is true, the world did not have to be beautiful to work. But it is. What does that mean?[from 'A Thousand Mornings' With Poet Mary Oliver for NPR Books]”

“it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.”

“LandscapeIsn't it plain the sheets of moss, except thatthey have no tongues, could lectureall day if they wanted aboutspiritual patience? Isn't it clearthe black oaks along the path are standingas though they were the most fragile of flowers?Every morning I walk like this aroundthe pond, thinking: if the doors of my heartever close, I am as good as dead.Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And nowthe crows break off from the rest of the darknessand burst up into the sky—as thoughall night they had thought of what they would like their lives to be, and imaginedtheir strong, thick wings.”