Randomly opened New and Selected Poems, Volume One, and this is what I read (p.92). Always thankful to you Mary Oliver. The Ponds Every year the lilies are so perfect I can hardly believe their lapped light crowding the black, mid-summer ponds. Nobody could count all of them -- the muskrats swimming among the pads and the grasses can reach out their muscular arms and touch only so many, they are that rife and wild. But what in this world is perfect? I bend closer and see how