Pottery Barn Reindeer Collection

Wallace Stevens. Sunday Morning y 8.


8 She hears, upon water Without That Sound That
A voice cries, 'The tomb in Palestine Is Not
the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, Where I lay. "
We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of
day and night, Or island
solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of That wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon
Our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us
Their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual Flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as
They sink, Downward to darkness
, on extended wings.

8
no sound on the waters
she hears a voice shouting, 'The tomb in Palestine
is not a porch for the spirits to be delayed.
is the tomb where Jesus lay. "
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
or old dependency of day and night,
or in the solitude of the island, unsponsored, free,
that wide water, the that does not leak.
deer walking in the mountains and the quail whistles
us their spontaneous cries,
sweet berries that ripen in
forests and in the solitude of the sun,
in the afternoon, flocks of pigeons
ambigui undulate as if it sank,
into the darkness with its wings outstretched.