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 metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.

by Wallace Stevens

Comments (4)

In the previous Sonnet had been set forth the thought that poetical eulogy and embellishment can add nothing to perfect truth and beauty. They are to be regarded rather as injurious. The thought here presented is essentially the same. And the concluding lines furnish an excuse for the poet's previous silence.
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
.............love the theme and the rhyme...so beautifully written..
For limited by words are we To draw in verse such symetry And words imperfect, soiled by man Cannot true beauty understand