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hannahrose_99's review against another edition
5.0
carpediemcaryn's review against another edition
dark
emotional
hopeful
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
3.75
yorno's review against another edition
emotional
hopeful
inspiring
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
4.0
oxnard_montalvo's review against another edition
I got lost in nature right alongside her. Ephemeral beauty and surprising linguistic twists and turns. She's a delight, is Mary Oliver. Just lovely and calming, though not without bite when necessary.
starry_n8ght's review against another edition
4.0
from “Rage”
“You are the dark song
of the morning;
serious and slow,
you shave, you dress,
you descend the stairs
in your public clothes
and drive away, you become
the wise and powerful one
who makes all the days
possible in the world.
But you were also the red song
in the night,
stumbling through the house
to the child’s bed,
to the damp rose of her body,
leaving your bitter taste.
And forever those nights snarl
the delicate machinery of the days.
When the child’s mother smiles
you see on her cheekbones
a truth you will never confess;
and you see how the child grows —
timidly, crouching in corners.
Sometimes in the wide night
you hear the most mournful cry,
a ravished and terrible moment.
In your dreams she’s a tree
that will never come to leaf —
in your dreams she’s a watch
you dropped on the dark stones
till no one could gather the fragments —
in your dreams you have sullied and murdered,
and dreams do not lie.”
“You are the dark song
of the morning;
serious and slow,
you shave, you dress,
you descend the stairs
in your public clothes
and drive away, you become
the wise and powerful one
who makes all the days
possible in the world.
But you were also the red song
in the night,
stumbling through the house
to the child’s bed,
to the damp rose of her body,
leaving your bitter taste.
And forever those nights snarl
the delicate machinery of the days.
When the child’s mother smiles
you see on her cheekbones
a truth you will never confess;
and you see how the child grows —
timidly, crouching in corners.
Sometimes in the wide night
you hear the most mournful cry,
a ravished and terrible moment.
In your dreams she’s a tree
that will never come to leaf —
in your dreams she’s a watch
you dropped on the dark stones
till no one could gather the fragments —
in your dreams you have sullied and murdered,
and dreams do not lie.”