I was sad all day, and why not.
There I was, books piled on both sides of the table,
paper stacked up, words falling off my tongue.
The robins had been a long time singing, and now it was beginning to rain.
What are we sure of?
Happiness isn’t a town on a map, or an early arrival,
or a job well done, but good work ongoing.
Which is not likely to be the trifling around with a poem.
Then it began raining hard,
and the flowers in the yard were full of lively fragrance.
You have had days like this, no doubt.
And wasn’t it wonderful, finally, to leave the room?
Ah, what a moment!
As for myself, I swung the door open.
And there was the wordless, singing world.
And I ran for my life.
—Mary Oliver, Work, Sometimes