(October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955 / Pennsylvania / United States)

Not Ideas About The Thing But The Thing Itself

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.

by Wallace Stevens

Comments (7)

weather change plus early rising sun...good for plants to bloom
Exquisite write about the benevolent nature's different appearances at different times in an year. Enjoyed the poem. Thanks for sharing.10 points.
quite enlightening and no doubt humbling it was to find warmth in that birdcall
By the way Gary Witt's analysis is highly insteresting. I would say more than good enough for any literature magazine. Thank you for your excellent comments. Paul
I always found the work of this man highly imaginative. I am simply fascinated at his choice of situations that we all can imagine however never think of.
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