Wallace Stevens

IJust as my fingers on these keysMake music, so the self-same soundsOn my spirit make a music too.Music is feeling then, not sound;And thus it is that what I feel,Here in this room, desiring you,Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,Is music. It is like the strainWaked in the elders by Susanna:Of a green evening, clear and warm,She bathed in her still garden, whileThe red-eyed elders, watching, feltThe basses of their being throbIn witching chords, and their thin bloodPulse pizzicati of Hosanna.IIIn the green water, clear and warm,Susanna lay.She searchedThe touch of springs,And foundConcealed imaginings.She sighedFor so much melody.Upon the bank she stoodIn the coolOf spent emotions.She felt, among the leaves,The dewOf old devotions.She walked upon the grass,Still quavering.The winds were like her maids,On timid feet,Fetching her woven scarves,Yet wavering.A breath upon her handMuted the night.She turned—A cymbal crashed,And roaring horns.IIISoon, with a noise like tambourines,Came her attendant Byzantines.They wondered why Susanna criedAgainst the elders by her side:And as they whispered, the refrainWas like a willow swept by rain.Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flameRevealed Susanna and her shame.And then the simpering Byzantines,Fled, with a noise like tambourines.IVBeauty is momentary in the mind—The fitful tracing of a portal;But in the flesh it is immortal.The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.So evenings die, in their green going,A wave, interminably flowing.So gardens die, their meek breath scentingThe cowl of Winter, done repenting.So maidens die, to the auroralCelebration of a maiden’s choral.Susanna’s music touched the bawdy stringsOf those white elders; but, escaping,Left only Death’s ironic scraping.Now, in its immortality, it playsOn the clear viol of her memory,And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Just as my fingers on these keysMake music, so the self-same soundsOn my spirit make a music too.

Just as my fingers on these keys

Make music, so the self-same sounds

On my spirit make a music too.

Music is feeling then, not sound;And thus it is that what I feel,Here in this room, desiring you,

Music is feeling then, not sound;

And thus it is that what I feel,

Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,Is music. It is like the strainWaked in the elders by Susanna:

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,

Is music. It is like the strain

Waked in the elders by Susanna:

Of a green evening, clear and warm,She bathed in her still garden, whileThe red-eyed elders, watching, felt

Of a green evening, clear and warm,

She bathed in her still garden, while

The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their being throbIn witching chords, and their thin bloodPulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

The basses of their being throb

In witching chords, and their thin blood

Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

In the green water, clear and warm,Susanna lay.She searchedThe touch of springs,And foundConcealed imaginings.She sighedFor so much melody.

In the green water, clear and warm,

Susanna lay.

She searched

The touch of springs,

And found

Concealed imaginings.

She sighed

For so much melody.

Upon the bank she stoodIn the coolOf spent emotions.She felt, among the leaves,The dewOf old devotions.

Upon the bank she stood

In the cool

Of spent emotions.

She felt, among the leaves,

The dew

Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,Still quavering.The winds were like her maids,On timid feet,Fetching her woven scarves,Yet wavering.

She walked upon the grass,

Still quavering.

The winds were like her maids,

On timid feet,

Fetching her woven scarves,

Yet wavering.

A breath upon her handMuted the night.She turned—A cymbal crashed,And roaring horns.

A breath upon her hand

Muted the night.

She turned—

A cymbal crashed,

And roaring horns.

III

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,Came her attendant Byzantines.

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,

Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna criedAgainst the elders by her side:

They wondered why Susanna cried

Against the elders by her side:

And as they whispered, the refrainWas like a willow swept by rain.

And as they whispered, the refrain

Was like a willow swept by rain.

Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flameRevealed Susanna and her shame.

Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame

Revealed Susanna and her shame.

And then the simpering Byzantines,Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

And then the simpering Byzantines,

Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

Beauty is momentary in the mind—The fitful tracing of a portal;But in the flesh it is immortal.

Beauty is momentary in the mind—

The fitful tracing of a portal;

But in the flesh it is immortal.

The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.So evenings die, in their green going,A wave, interminably flowing.So gardens die, their meek breath scentingThe cowl of Winter, done repenting.So maidens die, to the auroralCelebration of a maiden’s choral.

The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.

So evenings die, in their green going,

A wave, interminably flowing.

So gardens die, their meek breath scenting

The cowl of Winter, done repenting.

So maidens die, to the auroral

Celebration of a maiden’s choral.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy stringsOf those white elders; but, escaping,Left only Death’s ironic scraping.Now, in its immortality, it playsOn the clear viol of her memory,And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings

Of those white elders; but, escaping,

Left only Death’s ironic scraping.

Now, in its immortality, it plays

On the clear viol of her memory,

And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Death’s nobility againBeautified the simplest men.Fallen Winkle felt the prideOf AgamemnonWhen he died.What could London’sWork and wasteGive him—To that salty, sacrificial taste?What could London’sSorrow bring—To that short, triumphant sting?

Death’s nobility againBeautified the simplest men.Fallen Winkle felt the prideOf AgamemnonWhen he died.

Death’s nobility again

Beautified the simplest men.

Fallen Winkle felt the pride

Of Agamemnon

When he died.

What could London’sWork and wasteGive him—To that salty, sacrificial taste?

What could London’s

Work and waste

Give him—

To that salty, sacrificial taste?

What could London’sSorrow bring—To that short, triumphant sting?

What could London’s

Sorrow bring—

To that short, triumphant sting?

SUNDAY MORNING

IComplacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug, mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges and bright, green wingsSeem things in some procession of the dead,Winding across wide water, without sound.The day is like wide water, without sound,Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feetOver the seas, to silent Palestine,Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.IIShe hears, upon that water without sound,A voice that cries: “The tomb in PalestineIs not the porch of spirits lingering;It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”We live in an old chaos of the sun,Or old dependency of day and night,Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,Of that wide water, inescapable.Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quailWhistle about us their spontaneous cries;Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;And, in the isolation of the sky,At evening, casual flocks of pigeons makeAmbiguous undulations as they sink,Downward to darkness, on extended wings.IIIShe says: “I am content when wakened birds,Before they fly, test the realityOf misty fields, by their sweet questionings;But when the birds are gone, and their warm fieldsReturn no more, where, then, is paradise?”There is not any haunt of prophecy,Nor any old chimera of the grave,Neither the golden underground, nor isleMelodious, where spirits gat them home,Nor visionary South, nor cloudy palmRemote on heaven’s hill, that has enduredAs April’s green endures; or will endureLike her remembrance of awakened birds,Or her desire for June and evening, tippedBy the consummation of the swallow’s wings.IVShe says, “But in contentment I still feelThe need of some imperishable bliss.”Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreamsAnd our desires. Although she strews the leavesOf sure obliteration on our paths—The path sick sorrow took, the many pathsWhere triumph rang its brassy phrase, or loveWhispered a little out of tenderness—She makes the willow shiver in the sunFor maidens who were wont to sit and gazeUpon the grass, relinquished to their feet.She causes boys to bring sweet-smelling pearsAnd plums in ponderous piles. The maidens tasteAnd stray impassioned in the littering leaves.VSupple and turbulent, a ring of menShall chant in orgy on a summer mornTheir boisterous devotion to the sun—Not as a god, but as a god might be,Naked among them, like a savage source.Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,Out of their blood, returning to the sky;And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,The windy lake wherein their lord delights,The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills,That choir among themselves long afterward.They shall know well the heavenly fellowshipOf men that perish and of summer morn—And whence they came and whither they shall go,The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug, mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges and bright, green wingsSeem things in some procession of the dead,Winding across wide water, without sound.The day is like wide water, without sound,Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feetOver the seas, to silent Palestine,Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

And the green freedom of a cockatoo

Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate

The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

As a calm darkens among water-lights.

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

Seem things in some procession of the dead,

Winding across wide water, without sound.

The day is like wide water, without sound,

Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

She hears, upon that water without sound,A voice that cries: “The tomb in PalestineIs not the porch of spirits lingering;It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”We live in an old chaos of the sun,Or old dependency of day and night,Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,Of that wide water, inescapable.Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quailWhistle about us their spontaneous cries;Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;And, in the isolation of the sky,At evening, casual flocks of pigeons makeAmbiguous undulations as they sink,Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

She hears, upon that water without sound,

A voice that cries: “The tomb in Palestine

Is not the porch of spirits lingering;

It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

We live in an old chaos of the sun,

Or old dependency of day and night,

Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

Of that wide water, inescapable.

Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail

Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;

Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

And, in the isolation of the sky,

At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

III

She says: “I am content when wakened birds,Before they fly, test the realityOf misty fields, by their sweet questionings;But when the birds are gone, and their warm fieldsReturn no more, where, then, is paradise?”There is not any haunt of prophecy,Nor any old chimera of the grave,Neither the golden underground, nor isleMelodious, where spirits gat them home,Nor visionary South, nor cloudy palmRemote on heaven’s hill, that has enduredAs April’s green endures; or will endureLike her remembrance of awakened birds,Or her desire for June and evening, tippedBy the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

She says: “I am content when wakened birds,

Before they fly, test the reality

Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

There is not any haunt of prophecy,

Nor any old chimera of the grave,

Neither the golden underground, nor isle

Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

Nor visionary South, nor cloudy palm

Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured

As April’s green endures; or will endure

Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

She says, “But in contentment I still feelThe need of some imperishable bliss.”Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreamsAnd our desires. Although she strews the leavesOf sure obliteration on our paths—The path sick sorrow took, the many pathsWhere triumph rang its brassy phrase, or loveWhispered a little out of tenderness—She makes the willow shiver in the sunFor maidens who were wont to sit and gazeUpon the grass, relinquished to their feet.She causes boys to bring sweet-smelling pearsAnd plums in ponderous piles. The maidens tasteAnd stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

She says, “But in contentment I still feel

The need of some imperishable bliss.”

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams

And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

Of sure obliteration on our paths—

The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love

Whispered a little out of tenderness—

She makes the willow shiver in the sun

For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze

Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.

She causes boys to bring sweet-smelling pears

And plums in ponderous piles. The maidens taste

And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

Supple and turbulent, a ring of menShall chant in orgy on a summer mornTheir boisterous devotion to the sun—Not as a god, but as a god might be,Naked among them, like a savage source.Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,Out of their blood, returning to the sky;And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,The windy lake wherein their lord delights,The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills,That choir among themselves long afterward.They shall know well the heavenly fellowshipOf men that perish and of summer morn—And whence they came and whither they shall go,The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

Their boisterous devotion to the sun—

Not as a god, but as a god might be,

Naked among them, like a savage source.

Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills,

That choir among themselves long afterward.

They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

Of men that perish and of summer morn—

And whence they came and whither they shall go,

The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

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