Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

Wallace Stevens

 Next Poem          

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
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 was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.

Next Poem 

 Back to Wallace Stevens
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.