Poem by Wallace Stevens

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.

1. Of the Surface of Things
2. To the Roaring Wind
3. The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm
4. Looking across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly
5. Not Ideas about the Thing but the Thing Itself

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