1 min read
Слушать(AI)The Planet On The Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the
Were waste and
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens (October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955) was an American modernist poet. He was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, educated at Harvard and
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad
The time of year has grown indifferent Mildew of summer and the deepening Are both alike in the routine I know: I am too dumbly in my being pent
Valley Candle
My candle burned alone in an immense valley Beams of the huge night converged upon it, Until the wind blew The beams of the huge
Phases
I There’s a little square in Paris, Waiting until we pass They sit idly there,
Six Significant Landscapes
An old man In the shadow of a pine In China He sees larkspur,