A Dream Of Trees

Poem By Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

Comments about A Dream Of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, A quiet house, some green and modest acres A little way from every troubling town, A little way from factories, schools, laments. I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, With only streams and birds for company, To build out of my life a few wild stanzas. And then it came to me, that so was death, A little way away from everywhere. ––Mary Oliver
great poetic expression- There is a thing in me still dreams of trees. But let it go. Homesick for moderation, Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away. If any find solution, let him tell it. Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation Where, as the times implore our true involvement, The blades of every crisis point the way. I would it were not so, but so it is. Who ever made music of a mild day? ––Mary Oliver
Who is reading this Too robotically
We all must win the battle we face with accepting our mortality. It is ironically what sets us free. At a certain point we realize we are not invincible. As nice as it would be to live freely as if we were, we know that in the back of our minds denial is eating away at us, eventually giving way to reveal the truth. What we decide to do with our own truth is ultimately our own decision, but the effects of the decision we make means the difference between a truly fufuilling life and a life of desolate meaninglessness.
This is a really beautiful poem and has a lovely flow to it. Andrew 10!


Rating Card

4,3 out of 5
56 total ratings

Other poems of OLIVER

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--

August

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

Daisies

It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing