I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, 
arranging, her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, 
the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. 
By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.

Mary Oliver