From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days. - Wallace Stevens

Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions.

The casual is not Enough. The freshness of transformation is The freshness of a world. It is our own, It is ourselves, the freshness of ourselves, And that necessity and that presentation Are rubbings of a glass in which we peer.

Apotheosis is not The origin of the major man. He comes, p>Compact in invincible foils, from reason, Lighted at midnight by the studious eye, Swaddled in revery, the object of</p>The hum of thoughts evaded in the mind...