Who doesn’t love <br />roses, and who <br />doesn’t love the lilies <br />of the black ponds <br /> <br />floating like flocks <br />of tiny swans, <br />and of course, the flaming <br />trumpet vine <br /> <br />where the hummingbird comes <br />like a small green angel, to soak <br />his dark tongue <br />in happiness - <br /> <br />and who doesn’t want <br />to live with the brisk <br />motor of his heart <br />singing <br /> <br />like a Schubert <br />and his eyes <br />working and working like those days of rapture, <br />by Van Gogh in Arles? <br /> <br />Look! for most of the world <br />is waiting <br />or remembering - <br />most of the world is time <br /> <br />when we’re not here, <br />not born yet, or died - <br />a slow fire <br />under the earth with all <br />our dumb wild blind cousins <br />who also <br />can’t even remember anymore <br />their own happiness - <br /> <br />Look! and then we will be <br />like the pale cool <br />stones, that last almost <br />forever.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hummingbird-pauses-at-the-trumpet-vine/
