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Poem	I wake and hearing it raining. Were I dead, what would I give Lazily to lie here, Like this, and live? Or better yet: birdsong, Brightening and spreading -- How far would I come then To be at the world's wedding? Now that I lie, though, Listening, living, (Oh, but not forever, Oh, end arriving) How shall I praise them: All the sweet beings Eternally that outlive Me and my dying? Mountains, I mean; wind, water, air; Grass, and huge trees; clouds, flowers, And thunder, and night. Turtles, I mean, and toads; hawks, herons, owls; Graveyards, and towns, and trout; roads, gardens, Red berries, and deer. Lightning, I mean, and eagles; fences; snow; Sunrise, and ferns; waterfalls, serpents, Green islands, and sleep. Horses, I mean; butterflies, whales; Mosses, and stars and gravelly Rivers, and fruit. Oceans, I mean; black valleys; corn; Brambles, and cliffs; rock, dirt, dust, ice; And warnings of flood. How shall I name them? And in what order? Each would be first. Omission is murder. Maidens, I mean, and apples; needles; leaves; Worms, and planers, and clover; whirlwinds; dew; Bulls; geese -- Stop. Lie still. You will never be done. Leave them all there. Old lover. Live on.
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