These external regions, what do we fill them with Except reflections - Wallace Stevens

People should like poetry the way a child likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it.

He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.

That I may reduce the monster to Myself, and then may be myself In face of the monster, be more than part Of it, more than the monstrous player of One of its monstrous lutes, not be Alone, but reduce the monster and be, Two things, the two together as one, And play of the monster and of myself, Or better not of myself at all, But of that as its intelligence, Being the lion in the lute Before the lion locked in stone.