into a rich mash, in order thatit may resume.And thereforewho would cry outto the petals on the groundto stay,knowing as we must,how the vivacity of what was is marriedto the vitality of what will be?I don't sayit's easy, butwhat else will doif the love one claims to have for the worldbe true?So let us go on, cheerfully enough,this and every crisping day,though the sun be swinging east,and the ponds be cold and black,and the sweets of the year be doomed.
–Mary Oliver
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