If to serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar. - Wallace Stevens

But to impose is not To discover. To discover an order as of A season, to discover summer and know it, To discover winter and know it well, to find Not to impose, not to have reasoned at all, Out of nothing to have come on major weather, It is possible, possible, possible. It must Be possible. It must be that in time The real will from its crude compoundings come,<p>Seeming at first, a beast disgorged, unlike, Warmed by a desperate milk. To find the real, To be stripped of every fiction except one, The fiction of an absolute — Angel, Be silent in your luminous cloud and hear The luminous melody of proper sound.

The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.

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.