The Collected Poems Of Wallace Stevens (2011) - Plot & Excerpts
IT IS A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT Look round, brown moon, brown bird, as you rise to fly, Look round at the head and zither On the ground. Look round you as you start to rise, brown moon, At the book and shoe, the rotted rose At the door. This was the place to which you came last night, Flew close to, flew to without rising away. Now, again, In your light, the head is speaking. It reads the book. It becomes the scholar again, seeking celestial Rendezvous, Picking thin music on the rustiest string, Squeezing the reddest fragrance from the stump Of summer. The venerable song falls from your fiery wings. The song of the great space of your age pierces The fresh night. CERTAIN PHENOMENA OF SOUND I The cricket in the telephone is still. A geranium withers on the window-sill. Cat’s milk is dry in the saucer. Sunday song Comes from the beating of the locust’s wings, That do not beat by pain, but calendar, Nor meditate the world as it goes round. Someone has left for a ride in a balloon Or in a bubble examines the bubble of air.
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