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Wallace Stevens (Уоллес Стивенс)


The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage


But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found weed
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her on,
Blowing upon her hands
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes,
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meagre play
In the scrurry and water-shine,
As her heels foam—
Not as when the goldener nude
Of a later day

Will go, like the centre of sea-green pomp,
In an intenser calm,
Scullion of fate,
Across the spick torrent, ceaselessly,
Upon her irretrievable way.



Wallace Stevens's other poems:
  1. The River of Rivers in Connecticut
  2. Sunday Morning
  3. Looking across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly
  4. Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
  5. Le Monocle de Mon Oncle


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