“The Poet With his Face in His Hands,” by Mary Oliver
June 8, 2011
Today’s poem will sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
I read “The Poet With his Face in His Hands” from The Compact Bedford Introduction to Literature
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Belly up, it's A Poetry Feed. 
It seems like a paradox to “drip with despair” in the midst of “the thrush singing of the stone-hard beauty of everything”. Like a paradox or a cause and effect?
One thing leads to another and for whatever reason, sometimes “roaring happens” in or out of a cave!
Welcome back!
Yeah, that’s a remarkable pair of images, isn’t it. The roaring poet (whose voice unable to disturb the tumbling water) just near the singing thrush (who is just lightly touched lightly by that same water). Why does the roar get overwhelmed but the song is so present?