To have nothing to say and to say it in a tragic manner is not the same thing as having something to say. - Wallace Stevens

The sun, that brave man, Comes through boughs that lie in wait, That brave man. Green and gloomy eyes In dark forms of the grass Run away. The good stars, Pale helms and spiky spurs, Run away. Fears of my bed, Fears of life and fears of death, Run away. That brave man comes up From below and walks without meditation, That brave man.

It is not in the premise that reality
Is a solid. It may be a shade that traverses
A dust, a force that traverses a shade.

Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun,<p> Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.