The New Yorkerのインスタグラム(newyorkermag) - 9月11日 08時27分

A poem by Mary Oliver, who was born on this day in 1935. Oliver worked in the Romantic tradition of Wordsworth or Keats, but she also infused a distinctly American loneliness in her words. "Hers were not poems about isolation, though, but about pushing beyond your own sense of emotional quarantine," @rachsyme wrote last January, when Oliver died, at the age of 83. "Everywhere you look, in Oliver’s verse, you find threads of connectivity." Read more about one of America's most beloved poets at the link in our bio.

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