Wallace Stevens (Уоллес Стивенс)

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.

1. Earthy Anecdotes
2. To the Roaring Wind
3. Peter Quince at the Clavier
4. The River of Rivers in Connecticut
5. Tattoo

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1245

Последние стихотворения

To English version