Wallace Stevens (Уоллес Стивенс)

The Planet on the Table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.

1. Farewell to Florida
2. The Comedian as the Letter C
3. The Man on the Dump
4. Two Figures in Dense Violet Light
5. Phases

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1698

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