Quotes About Morning

I am one of those who has no trouble imagining the sentient lives of trees, of their leaves in some fashion communicating or of the massy trunks and heavy branches knowing it is I who have come, as I always come, each morning, to walk beneath them, glad to be alive and glad to be there.

When I woke the morning light was just slipping in front of the stars and I was covered with blossoms.

Extending the Airport Runway The good citizens of the commission cast their votes for more of everything. Very early in the morning I go out to the pale dunes, to look over the empty spaces of the wilderness. For something is there, something is there when nothing is there but itself, that is not there when anything else is. Alas, the good citizens of the commission have never seen it, whatever it is, formless, yet palpable. Very shining, very delicate. Very rare.

To believe in the soul—to believe in it exactly as much and as hardily as one believes in a mountain, say, or a fingernail, which is ever in view— imagine the consequences! How far-reaching, and thoroughly wonderful! For everything, by such a belief, would be charged, and changed. You wake in the morning, the soul exists, your mouth sings it, your mind accepts it. And the perceived, tactile world is, upon the instant, only half the world!

The snails on the pink sleds of their bodies are moving among the morning glories The spider is asleep among the red thumbs of the raspberries.

In the morning it shuffles, unhurried, across the wet fields in its black slippers, in its coal-colored coat with the white stripe like a river running down its spine

Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors to my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.

This morning two mockingbirds in the green field were spinning and tossing the white ribbons of their songs into the air. I had nothing better to do than listen. I mean this seriously.

This is the earnest work. Each of us is given only so many mornings to do it— to look around and love the oily fur of our lives, the hoof and the grass-stained muzzle.

Among the things I learned in those years were two of special interest to poets. First, that one can rise early in the morning and have time to write (or, even, to take a walk and then write) before the world's work schedule begins. Also, that one can live simply and honorably on just about enough money to keep a chicken alive. And do so cheerfully.

I WAKE CLOSE TO MORNING Why do people keep asking to see God's identity papers when the darkness opening into morning is more than enough? Certainly any god might turn away in disgust. Think of Sheba approaching the kingdom of Solomon. Do you think she had to ask, "Is this the place?

Oh, mother earth, your comfort is great, your arms never withhold. It has saved my life to know this. Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the morning.

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world? Because, properly attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion. — Mary Oliver, from "What I Have Learned So Far," New and Selected Poems . (Beacon Press; Reprint, 2001 edition July 1, 1993)

When I wake, and you are already wiping the stars away

It is a silver morning like any other. I am at my desk. Then the phone rings, or someone raps at the door. I am deep in the machinery of my wits. Reluctantly I rise, I answer the phone or I open the door. And the thought which I had in hand, or almost in hand, is gone.

believe us, they say, it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world. I beg of you, do not walk by without pausing to attend to this rather ridiculous performance. It could mean something. It could mean everything.

Why do people keep asking to see God's identity papers when the darkness opening into morning is more than enough?

Morning breath" is hydrogen sulfide released by bacteria consuming shed tongue cells while you mouth-breathe for eight hours; saliva normally washes the debris away.

On Wednesday, September 3, I'd been awake at five in the morning for an interview with Charles Gibson on Good Morning, America. Apparently, I still hadn't accepted Diana's death because at the end of our talk Charles observed, "It's wonderful to hear you speaking about her in the present tense. Do you realize you've been doing that?" I hadn't been aware of this at all.

I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story? I was asked every morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative

the stars often disappeared in the light of the morning

His landlady came to the door, loosely wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed ejaculating.

And so here I am ! I continue to exist—to see one day succeed the other ; to dread night, but more to dread morning, and hail another cheerless day.

Why do these two always wake up feeling dramatic?