The watcher comes, knowing the small
knowledge of his life in this body
in this place in this world. He comes
to a place of rest where he cannot
mistake himself as larger than he is,
the place of the gray flycatcher,
the yellow butterfly, the green dragonfly,
the white violet, the columbine,
where he cannot mistake himself
as more graced or graceful than he is.
At the woods' edge, the wild rose
is in bloom, beauty and consolation
always in excess of thought.
Wendell Berry, from “A Small Porch in the Woods”