Goldfinches by Mary Oliver

In the fields 
we let them have— 
in the fields we don’t want yet— 
where thistles rise 
out of the marshlands of spring,
 and spring open— 
each bud a settlement of riches— 
a coin of reddish fire— 
the finches wait for midsummer, 
for the long days, 
for the brass heat, 
for the seeds to begin 
to form in the hardening thistles, 
dazzling as the teeth of mice, 
but black,
filling the face of every flower. 
Then they drop from the sky.
 A buttery gold, 
they swing on the thistles, 
they gather the silvery down,
 they carry it in their finchy beaks 
to the edges of the fields, 
to the trees, 
as though their minds 
were on fire with the flower 
of one perfect idea— 
and there they build 
their nests and lay their pale- blue eggs, 
every year, 
and every year the hatchlings wake 
in the swaying branches,
 in the silver baskets, 
and love the world. 
Is it necessary to say any
more?
 Have you heard them singing 
in the wind, 
above the final fields? 
Have you ever been 
so happy 
in your life?