Wallace Stevens: Все стихи поэта

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A Rabbit As King Of The Ghosts

The difficulty to think at the end of day,

When the shapeless shadow covers the sun

And nothing is left except light on your fur—

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,

Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk

And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,

Without that monument of cat,

by Wallace Stevens

What is Divinity

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

by Wallace Stevens

Nomad Exquisite

As the immense dew of Florida

Brings forth

The big-finned palm

And green vine angering for life,

As the immense dew of Florida

Brings forth hymn and hymn

From the beholder,

Beholding all these green sides

by Wallace Stevens

Frogs Eat Butterflies, Snakes Eat Frogs, Hogs Eat Snakes, Men Eat Hogs

It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,

Tugging at banks, until they seemed

Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,

That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,

The breath of turgid summer, and

Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,

That the man who erected this cabin, planted

This field, and tended it awhile,

by Wallace Stevens

The Well Dressed Man With A Beard

After the final no there comes a yes

And on that yes the future world depends.

No was the night. Yes is this present sun.

If the rejected things, the things denied,

Slid over the western cataract, yet one,

One only, one thing that was firm, even

No greater than a cricket's horn, no more

Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech

by Wallace Stevens

Poem Written at Morning

A sunny day's complete Poussiniana

Divide it from itself. It is this or that

And it is not.

By metaphor you paint

A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,

A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,

To be served by men of ice.

The senses paint

by Wallace Stevens

Continual Conversation With A Silent Man

The old brown hen and the old blue sky,

Between the two we live and die—

The broken cartwheel on the hill.

As if, in the presence of the sea,

We dried our nets and mended sail

And talked of never-ending things,

Of the never-ending storm of will,

One will and many wills, and the wind,

by Wallace Stevens

In The Carolinas

The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.

Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.

Already the new-born children interpret love

In the voices of mothers.

Timeless mothers,

How is it that your aspic nipples

For once vent honey?

The pine-tree sweetens my body

by Wallace Stevens

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

There it was, word for word,

The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,

Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed

A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,

Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

by Wallace Stevens

Bantams in Pine-woods

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan

Of tan with henna hackles, halt!

Damned universal cock, as if the sun

Was blackmoor to bear your blazing tail.

Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.

Your world is you. I am my world.

You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!

Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,

by Wallace Stevens

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 night

Converged upon its image,

Until the wind blew.

by Wallace Stevens

The Planet On The Table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.

They were of a remembered time

Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun

Were waste and welter

And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one

And his poems, although makings of his self,

by Wallace Stevens