The imagination is man's power over nature. - Wallace Stevens

There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain, So many clappers going without bells, That these bethous compose a heavenly gong. <p> One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, The phrases of a single phrase, ke-ke, A single text, granite monotony

I heard them cry — the peacocks. Was it a cry against the twilight Or against the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, Turning as the flames Turned in the fire, Turning as the tails of the peacocks Turned in the loud fire, Loud as the hemlocks Full of the cry of the peacocks? Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

After the final no there comes a yes. And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun.