On Sunday morning, I knelt down and begged Wallace Stevens.

Wallace Stevens

I

Pegnol's complaints and lateness

Coffee and oranges on the sunny chair,

And the green freedom of parrots.

Mix and dissipate on the carpet

Sacred tranquility of ancient sacrifices.

She dreamed for a while and felt the darkness.

The erosion of old disasters,

When the peace darkens in the water lamp.

Pungent oranges and bright green wings

It seems that in some ranks of death,

Winding through the wide water, silently.

The day is like a wide water surface, without sound,

Quietly waiting for her dream steps

Across the ocean, to silent Palestine,

The rule of blood and graves.

two

Why did she give her bounty to the dead?

If divinity can come, what is it?

Only in silent shadows and dreams?

Can't she find solace in the sunshine,

Spicy fruit and bright green wings, otherwise

In any fragrance or beauty of the earth,

Something as precious as heaven?

Divinity must exist in herself:

The passion of rain, or the mood of falling snow;

Sorrow in loneliness, or not stopped.

Joy when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotion on the wet road in autumn night;

All the happiness and pain, remember

Branches in summer and branches in winter.

These are measures destined for her soul.

Roman numeral 3

Jupiter in the clouds has an inhuman background.

No mother to feed him, no sweet land to give him.

A big move on his mysterious mind.

He moved among us, like a muttering king,

Magnificent, will be on his hips,

Until our blood, mixed, virgin,

Heaven has brought such a reward to desire.

Even Indians saw it on a star.

Will our blood fail? Or will it come true?

Blood of heaven? Earth society

It seems that all the heaven we should know?

The sky will be much friendlier then than it is now.

Part is labor, part is pain,

After eternal love,

Not this split and indifferent blue.

Intravenously injected

She said, "I am satisfied with the awakened bird.

Before they fly, test the reality

The misty fields, with their sweet inquiries;

But when the birds and their warm fields are gone.

Never return, then where is heaven? "

Where there is no prophecy,

Or any ancient tomb monster,

It is neither a golden underground nor an island.

Melodious, the soul goes home,

It's not an imaginary south, nor a cloudy palm.

On the distant paradise mountain, that has been endured.

Like the green persistence in April; Still will endure.

Just like her memory of waking birds,

Or her longing for June and dusk

Through the perfection of swallow wings.

V

She said, "but I still feel in satisfaction.

The need for some kind of eternal happiness. "

Death is the mother of beauty; So from her,

Only in this way can our dreams come true.

And our desires. Although she scattered leaves.

Will certainly be erased on our way,

The path taken by morbid sadness, many paths

There, victory rang its sonorous words, or love.

Whispered softly,

She made the willows tremble in the sun.

For girls who are used to sitting and staring

On the grass, give up their feet.

She asked the boys to pile new plums and pears.

On an abandoned plate. Maiden tasting

Passionate in the fallen leaves.

five

Is there no change of death in heaven?

Will ripe fruit never fall? Or make branches.

Always hanging heavily in the perfect sky,

Constant, but so like our dying earth,

Looking for the ocean like our own river.

They will never find the same retreating coast.

The unspeakable pang that has never been touched?

Why put pears on those banks?

Or decorate the coast with the scent of plums?

Alas, they should wear our colors,

Our afternoon silk fabrics,

Pluck our insipid strings!

Death is beautiful, mysterious,

We designed it in his burning chest

Our mother on earth waited sleepless.

Roman numeral 7

Soft and rough, a circle of men

Will sing heartily in the summer morning

Their fanatical love for the sun,

Not as a god, but as a possible god,

Naked in it, like a source of barbarism.

Their hymn will be the hymn of heaven,

From their blood, back to the sky;

In their songs, one voice after another,

The windy lake that their Lord likes,

Trees, like Serafin, and echoing mountains,

After a long time, the choir.

They should know the friendship in heaven.

Dead people and summer mornings.

Where did they come from and where will they go?

Dewdrops will appear on their feet.

eight

She heard, on the silent water,

A shouting voice, "the tomb of Palestine.

Is the soul of the porch lingering?

This is the tomb of Jesus, where he lies. "

We live in an ancient solar chaos,

Or the old dependence day and night,

Or a lonely island, undisturbed and free,

There is no escape in that wide water.

Deer walk on our mountain, quail.

Whistle to us and they cry spontaneously;

Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

In the isolated sky,

At night, there will be a flock of pigeons occasionally.

Fuzzy fluctuations when sinking,

Down into the darkness, spread your wings.