Night after night <br />darkness <br />enters the face <br />of the lily <br />which, lightly, <br />closes its five walls <br />around itself, <br />and its purse <br />of honey, <br />and its fragrance, <br />and is content <br />to stand there <br />in the garden, <br />not quite sleeping, <br />and, maybe, <br />saying in lily language <br />some small words <br />we can’t hear <br />even when there is no wind <br />anywhere, <br />its lips <br />are so secret, <br />its tongue <br />is so hidden – <br />or, maybe, <br />it says nothing at all <br />but just stands there <br />with the patience <br />of vegetables <br />and saints <br />until the whole earth has turned around <br />and the silver moon <br />becomes the golden sun – <br />as the lily absolutely knew it would, <br />which is itself, isn’t it, <br />the perfect prayer?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lily/
