Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! <br />What a task <br />to ask <br />of anything, or anyone, <br />yet it is ours, <br />and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. <br />One fall day I heard <br />above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound <br />I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was <br />a flock of snow geese, winging it <br />faster than the ones we usually see, <br />and, being the color of snow, catching the sun <br />so they were, in part at least, golden. I <br />held my breath <br />as we do <br />sometimes <br />to stop time <br />when something wonderful <br />has touched us <br />as with a match, <br />which is lit, and bright, <br />but does not hurt <br />in the common way, <br />but delightfully, <br />as if delight <br />were the most serious thing <br />you ever felt. <br />The geese <br />flew on, <br />I have never seen them again. <br />Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. <br />Maybe I won't. <br />It doesn't matter. <br />What matters <br />is that, when I saw them, <br />I saw them <br />as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/snow-geese/
