It is of him, ephebe, to make, to confect The final elegance, not to console Nor sanctify, but plainly to propound. - Wallace Stevens

The words they spoke were voices that she heard. She looked at them and saw them as they were And what she felt fought off the barest phrase.

One of the limits of reality Presents itself in Oley when the hay, Baked through long days, is piled in mows. It is A land too ripe for enigmas, too serene.… Things stop in that direction and since they stop The direction stops and we accept what is As good. The utmost must be good and is…

Yet voluble of dumb violence. You look Across the roofs as sigil and as ward And in your centre mark them and are cowed . . .