"Anything worth thinking about is worth
     singing about."
 
Which is why we have
songs of praise, songs of love, songs
     of sorrow.
 
Songs to the gods, who have
     many names.
 
Songs the shepherds sing, on the
     lonely mountains, while the sheep
          are honoring the grass, by eating it.
 
The dance-songs of the bees, to tell
     where the flowers, suddenly, in the
          morning light, have opened.
 
And the chorus of many, shouting to heaven,
     or at it, or pleading.
 
Or that greatest of love affairs, a violin
     and a human body.
 
And a composer, maybe hundreds of years dead.
 
I think of Schubert, scribbling on a cafe
     napkin.
          Thank you, thank you.

                                      And Bob Dylan Too, Mary Oliver