Lunar Paraphrase, par Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens

Lunar Paraphrase

he moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

When, at the wearier end of November,

Her old light moves along the branches,

Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;

When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,

Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,

Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter

Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;

When over the houses, a golden illusion

Brings back an earlier season of quiet

And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness—

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

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Poetry Is a Destructive Force

That’s what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast,

Wallace Stevens

Lunar Paraphrase

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Autres oeuvres par Wallace Stevens...