lirik lagu wallace stevens - credences of summer
now in midsummer come and all fools slaughtered
and spring’s infuriations over and a long way
to the first autumnal inhalations, young broods
are in the grass, the roses are heavy with a weight
of fragrance and the mind lays by its trouble
now the mind lays by its trouble and considers
the fidgets of remembrance come to this
this is the last day of a certain year
beyond which there is nothing left of time
it comes to this and the imagination’s life
there is nothing more inscribed nor thought nor felt
and this must comfort the heart’s core against
its false disasters~ these fathers standing round
these mothers touching, speaking, being near
these lovers waiting in the soft dry grass
postpone the anatomy of summer, as
the physical pine, the metaphysical pine
let’s see the very thing and nothing else
let’s see it with the hottest fire of sight
burn everything not part of it to ash
trace the gold sun about the whitened sky
without evasion by a single metaphor
look at it in its essential barrenness
and say this, this is the centre that i seek
fix it in an eternal foliage
and fill the foliage with arrested peace
joy of such permanence, right ignorance
of change still possible. exile desire
for what is not. this is the banenness
of the fertile thing that can attain no more
it is the natural tower of all the world
the point of survey, green’s green apogee
but a tower more precious than the view beyond
a point of survey squatting like a throne
axis of everything, green’s apogee
and happiest folk~land, mostly marriage~hymns
it is the mountain on which the tower stands
it is the final mountain. here the sun
sleepless, inhales his proper air, and rests
this is the refuge that the end creates
it is the old man standing on the tower
who reads no book. his ruddy ancientness
absorbs the ruddy summer and is appeased
by an understanding that fulfils his age
by a feeling capable of nothing more
one of the limits of reality
presents itself in oley when the hay
baked through long days, is piled in mows. it is
a land too ripe for enigmas, too serene
there the distant fails the clairvoyant eye
and the secondary senses of the ear
swarm, not with secondary sounds, but choirs
not evocations but last choirs, last sounds
with nothing else compounded, carried full
pure rhetoric of a language without words
things stop in that direction and since they stop
the direction stops and we accept what is
as good. the utmost must be good and is
and is our fortune and honey hived in the trees
and mingling of colors at a festival
one day enriches a year. one woman makes
the rest look down. one man becomes a race
lofty like him, like him perpetual
or do the other days enrich the one?
and is the queen humble as she seems to be
the charitable majesty of her whole kin?
the bristling soldier, weather~foxed, who looms
in the sunshine is a filial form and one
of the land’s children, easily born, its flesh
not fustian. the more than casual blue
contains the year and other years and hymns
and people, without souvenir. the day
enriches the year, not as embellishment
stripped of remembrance, it displays its strength~
the youth, the vital son, the heroic power
the rock cannot be broken. it is the tmth
it rises from land and sea and covers them
it is a mountain half way green and then
the other immeasurable half, such rock
as placid air becomes. but it is not
a hermit’s truth nor symbol in hermitage
it is the visible rock, the audible
the brilliant mercy of a sure repose
on this present ground, the vividest repose
things certain sustaining us in certainty
it is the rock of summer, the extreme
a mountain luminous half way in bloom
and then half way in the extremest light
of sapphires flashing from the central sky
as if twelve princes sat before a king
far in the woods they sang their unreal songs
secure. it was difficult to sing in face
of the object. the singers had to avert themselves
or else avert the object. deep in the woods
they sang of summer in the common fields
they sang desiring an object that was near
in face of which desire no longer moved
nor made of itself that which it could not find . .
three times the concentred self takes hold, three times
the thrice concentred self, having possessed
the object, grips it in savage scrutiny
once to make captive, once to subjugate
or yield to subjugation, once to proclaim
the meaning of the capture, this hard prize
fully made, fully apparent, fully found
the trumpet of morning blows in the clouds and through
the sky. it is the visible announced
it is the more than visible, the more
than sharp, ill~strious scene. the trumpet cries
this is the successor of the invisible
this is its substitute in stratagems
of the spirit. this, in sight and memory
must take its place, as what is possible
replaces what is not. the resounding cry
is like ten thousand tumblers tumbling down
to share the day. the trumpet supposes that
a mind exists, aware of division, aware
of its cry as clarion, its diction’s way
as that of a personage in a multitude:
man’s mind grown venerable in the unreal
fly low, c~ck bright, and stop on a bean pole. let
your brown breast redden, while you wait for warmth
with one eye watch the willow, motionless
the gardener’s cat is dead, the gardener gone
and last year’s garden grows salacious weeds
a complex of emotions falls apart
in an abandoned spot. soft, civil bird
the decay that you regard: of the arranged
and of the spirit of the arranged, douceurs
tristesses, the fund of life and death, suave bush
and polished beast, this complex falls apart
and on your bean pole, it may be, you detect
another complex of other emotions, not
so soft, so civil, and you make a sound
which is not part of the listener’s own sense
the personae of summer play the characters
of an inhuman author, who meditates
with the gold bugs, in blue meadows, late at night
he does not hear his characters talk. he sees
them mottled, in the moodiest costumes
of blue and yellow, sky and sun, belted
and knotted, sashed and seamed, half pales of red
half pales of green, appropriate habit for
the huge decorum, the manner of the time
part of the mottled mood of summer’s whole
free, for a moment, from malice and sudden cry
complete in a completed scene, speaking
their parts as in a youthful happiness
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