Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself

BY WALLACE STEVENS

Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing ItselfAt the earliest ending of winter,

In March, a scrawny cry from outside

Seemed like a sound in his mind.
.
He knew that he heard it,

A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,

In the early March wind.
.
The sun was rising at six,

No longer a battered panache above snow . . .

It would have been outside.
.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism

Of sleep’s faded papier-mâché . . .

The sun was coming from outside.
.
That scrawny cry—it was

A chorister whose c preceded the choir.

It was part of the colossal sun,
.
Surrounded by its choral rings,

Still far away. It was like

A new knowledge of reality.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Poem

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s