In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices. - Wallace Stevens

After the final no there comes a yes. And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun.

After the final no there comes a yes / And on that yes the future world depends.

"Lunar Paraphrase"

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

When, at the wearier end of November,
Her old light moves along the branches,
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;
When over the houses, a golden illusion
Brings back an earlier season of quiet
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness — The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.