He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue. - Wallace Stevens

Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

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.

An unaffected man in a negative light Could not have borne his labor nor have died Sighing that he should leave the banjo’s twang.