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

We agree in principle. That's clear. But take The opposing law and make a peristyle, And from the peristyle project a masque Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness, Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, Is equally converted into palms, Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm, Madame, we are where we began.

They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne.
We shall return at twilight from the lecture
Pleased that the irrational is rational

There is a month, a year, there is a time In which majesty is a mirror of the self: I have not but I am and as I am, I am.