drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
— Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands,” New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2 (Beacon Press, April 15, 2007)