It is possible, I suppose that sometime <br />we will learn everything <br />there is to learn: what the world is, for example, <br />and what it means. I think this as I am crossing <br />from one field to another, in summer, and the <br />mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either <br />knows enough already or knows enough to be <br />perfectly content not knowing. Song being born <br />of quest he knows this: he must turn silent <br />were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead <br />oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly <br />unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display <br />the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't <br />mind my saying so - their hearts. Of course <br />I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and <br />narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know? <br />But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given, <br />to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; <br />for example - I think this <br />as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch - <br />the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the <br />daisies for the field.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/daisies/
