Mary Oliver’s poem, “Swans,” appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review’s Winter 2008 issue. We revisit it today in honor of the poet’s birthday.
They appeared
over the dunes,
they skimmed the trees
and hurried on
to the sea
or some lonely pond
or wherever it is
that swans go,
urgent, immaculate,
the heat of their eyes
staring down
and then away,
the thick spans
of their wings
as bright as snow,
their shoulder-power
echoing
inside my own body.
How could I help but adore them?
How could I help but wish
that one of them might drop
a white feather
that I should have
something in my hand
to tell me
that they were real?
Of course
this was foolish.
What we love, shapely and pure,
is not to be held,
but to be believed in.
And then they vanished, into the untouchable distance.
Read more poems by Mary Oliver, and others, in our Archives.