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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.



Wallace Stevens's other poems:
  1. The River of Rivers in Connecticut
  2. Sunday Morning
  3. The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage
  4. Looking across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly
  5. Tea at the Palaz of Hoon


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