Who doesn't love
roses, and who
doesn't love the lilies
of the black ponds

floating like flocks
of tiny swans,
and of course the flaming
trumpet vine

where the hummingbird comes
like a small green angel, to soak
his dark tongue
in happiness--

and who doesn't want
to live with the brisk
motor of his heart
singing

like a Schubrt,
and his eyes
working and working like those days of rapture,
by van Gogh, in Arles?

Look! for most of the world
is waiting
or remembering --
most of the world is time...

from Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
by Mary Oliver