A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned — A cymbal crashed, Amid roaring horns. - Wallace Stevens

Red-in-red repetitions never going Away,a little rusty, a little rouged, A little roughened and ruder, a crown<p>The eye could not escape, a red renown Blowing itself upon the tedious ear.

Yet voluble of dumb violence. You look Across the roofs as sigil and as ward And in your centre mark them and are cowed . . .

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