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Wallace Stevens (Уоллес Стивенс)


Lunar Paraphrase


The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

When, at the wearier end of November,
Her old light moves along the branches,
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;
When over the houses, a golden illusion
Brings back an earlier season of quiet
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness—

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.



Wallace Stevens's other poems:
  1. Le Monocle de Mon Oncle
  2. The River of Rivers in Connecticut
  3. Earthy Anecdotes
  4. To the One of Fictive Music
  5. The Plain Sense of Things


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