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December 11, 2016
Of Mere Being by Wallace Stevens
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Posted by gerardvanderleun at December 11, 2016 11:18 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.
Your Say
Poetry, building something with words that is unknowable. I like it. Always did.
Posted by: pbird at December 12, 2016 11:45 AM
The wonderful Wallace Stevens ...
Posted by: Dex Quire at December 15, 2016 2:19 AM