By Mary Oliver, from New and Selected Poems

You can

die for it —-

an idea,

or the world.  People


have done so,



their small bodies be bound


to the stake,


an unforgettable

fury of light.  But


this morning,

climbing the familiar hills

in the familiar

fabric of dawn, I thought


of China,

and India

and Europe, and I thought

how the sun



for everyone just

so joyfully

as it rises


under the lashes

of my own eyes, and I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?


What is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us?  Call it


whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter



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