1 мин

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

At the earliest ending of winter,

In March, a scrawny cry from

Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,

A bird's cry, at daylight or before,

In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,

No longer a battered panache above snow… It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism Of sleep's faded papier-mache… The sun was coming from the outside.

That scrawny cry—It wasA chorister whose c preceded the choir.

It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,

Still far away.

It was likeA new knowledge of reality.


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…

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