I have been in love more times than one,
  thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
  whether active or not. Sometimes
  it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
  an afternoon, but not less real for that.
  They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
  or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
  there are so many. You, and you, and you,
  whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
  missed. Love, love, love, it was the
  core of my life, from which, of course, comes
  the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
  that some of them were men and some were women
  and some—now carry my revelation with you—
  were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
  the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
  which was the first, and the best, the most
  loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
  my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
  such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its
  innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine
  this is how it began.
                               —Mary Oliver