At Great Pond <br />the sun, rising, <br />scrapes his orange breast <br />on the thick pines, <br />and down tumble <br />a few orange feathers into <br />the dark water. <br />On the far shore <br />a white bird is standing <br />like a white candle --- <br />or a man, in the distance, <br />in the clasp of some meditation --- <br />while all around me the lilies <br />are breaking open again <br />from the black cave <br />of the night. <br />Later, I will consider <br />what I have seen --- <br />what it could signify --- <br />what words of adoration I might <br />make of it, and to do this <br />I will go indoors to my desk --- <br />I will sit in my chair --- <br />I will look back <br />into the lost morning <br />in which I am moving, now, <br />like a swimmer, <br />so smoothly, <br />so peacefully, <br />I am almost the lily --- <br />almost the bird vanishing over the water <br />on its sleeves of night.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-great-pond/
