There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, <br />A quiet house, some green and modest acres <br />A little way from every troubling town, <br />A little way from factories, schools, laments. <br />I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, <br />With only streams and birds for company. <br />To build out of my life a few wild stanzas. <br />And then it came to me, that so was death, <br />A little way away from everywhere. <br /> <br />There is a thing in me still dreams of trees, <br />But let it go. Homesick for moderation, <br />Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away. <br />If any find solution, let him tell it. <br />Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation <br />Where, as the times implore our true involvement, <br />The blades of every crisis point the way. <br /> <br />I would it were not so, but so it is. <br />Who ever made music of a mild day?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dream-of-trees/
