Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;
And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
There had a being, breathing frost;
And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt
At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky
Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion’s look
And what we said of it became
A part of what it is … Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,
Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,
A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.
– Wallace Stevens (fascinating background)
Ah, Mr JaAG, another learning experience. I had never heard of Wallace Stevens before, and now after reading this I must follow your link to wikipedia and find out more. I thank you.
T’anky for the comment – but, dang – when people see me in person, they’ll go "um….did you get enough sleep last night?" *laughing!*
This poem deserves reading twice.
That is wonderful. I enjoyed it very much. I don’t know how I missed this or the author as I read incessantly it seems. I have talked about the very topic this addresses many times as I have discussed natural phenomena, or life shaping events such as this, with others. Both friends who are as interested in these things as I am, and in an educational setting.
Darling,This is indeed very lovely indeed…Oh so beautiful thinker of distinction that renders one replete…Voicing a thread to all with the flavours so entertained one can only bask in rich subtle moments…Revel in this feat for life is so filled with wonder this is yes one more exquisite sampling. Thank you darling for this most heartfelt post you gift me a sweet soft smile to partake in for the remainder of my day. Kisses Catherine