"...She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss'.
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment for our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths,
Where triumph sang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun.
...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.
...At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings."
Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning
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