Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, <p> By the terrible … - Wallace Stevens

... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves,
So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound.

Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self,
Impalpable habitations that seem to move
In the movement of the colors of the mind.

Confused illuminations and sonorities,
So much ourselves, we cannot tell apart
the idea and bearer - being of
the idea....

My candle burned alone in an immense valley. Beams of the huge night converged upon it, Until the wind blew. Then beams of the huge night Converged upon its image, Until the wind blew.

"The Snow Man"

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens, The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. (Vintage; Reissue edition February 19, 1990)