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lirik lagu wallace stevens - the auroras of autumn

this is where the serpent lives, the bodiless
his head is air. beneath his tip at night
eyes open and fix on us in every sky

or is this another wriggling out of the egg
another image at the end of the cave
another bodiless for the body’s slough?

this is where the serpent lives. this is his nest
these fields, these hills, these tinted distancеs
and the pines above and along and bеside the sea

this is form gulping after formlessness
skin flashing to wished~for disappearances
and the serpent body flashing without the skin

this is the height emerging and its base
these lights may finally attain a pole
in the midmost midnight and find the serpent there

in another nest, the master of the maze
of body and air and forms and images
relentlessly in possession of happiness

this is his poison: that we should disbelieve
even that. his meditations in the ferns
when he moved so slightly to make sure of sun
made us no less as sure. we saw in his head
black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal
the moving grass, the indian in his glade

farewell to an idea . . . a cabin stands
deserted, on a beach. it is white
as by a custom or according to

an ancestral theme or as a consequence
of an infinite course. the flowers against the wall
are white, a little dried, a kind of mark

reminding, trying to remind, of a white
that was different, something else, last year
or before, not the white of an aging afternoon

whether fresher or duller, whether of winter cloud
or of winter sky, from horizon to horizon
the wind is blowing the sand across the floor

here, being visible is being white
is being of the solid of white, the accomplishment
of an extremist in an exercise . .
the season changes. a cold wind chills the beach
the long lines of it grow longer, emptier
a darkness gathers though it does not fall

and the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall
the man who is walking turns blankly on the sand
he observes how the north is always enlarging the change

with its frigid brilliances, its blue~red sweeps
and gusts of great enkindlings, its polar green
the color of ice and fire and solitude

iii

farewell to an idea . . . the mother’s face
the purpose of the poem, fills the room
they are together, here, and it is warm

with none of the prescience of oncoming dreams
it is evening. the house is evening, half dissolved
only the half they can never possess remains

still~starred. it is the mother they possess
who gives transparence to their present peace
she makes that gentler that can gentle be
and yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed
she gives transparence. but she has grown old
the necklace is a carving not a kiss

the soft hands are a motion not a touch
the house will crumble and the books will burn
they are at ease in a shelter of the mind

and the house is of the mind and they and time
together, all together. boreal night
will look like frost as it approaches them

and to the mother as she falls asleep
and as they say good~night, good~night. upstairs
the windows will be lighted, not the rooms

a wind will spread its windy grandeurs round
and knock like a rifle~b~tt against the door
the wind will command them with invincible sound

farewell to an idea . . . the cancellings
the negations are never final. the father sits
in sp~ce, wherever he sits, of bleak regard

as one that is strong in the bushes of his eyes
he says no to no and yes to yes. he says yes
to no; and in saying yes he says farewell

he measures the velocities of change
he leaps from heaven to heaven more rapidly
than bad angels leap from heaven to h~ll in flames

but now he sits in quiet and green~a~day
he assumes the great speeds of sp~ce and flutters them
from cloud to cloudless, cloudless to keen clear

in flights of eye and ear, the highest eye
and the lowest ear, the deep ear that discerns
at evening, things that attend it until it hears

the supernatural preludes of its own
at the moment when the angelic eye defines
its actors approaching, in company, in their masks

master o master seated by the fire
and yet in sp~ce and motionless and yet
of motion the ever~brightening origin

profound, and yet the king and yet the crown
look at this present throne. what company
in masks, can choir it with the naked wind?

the mother invites humanity to her house
and table. the father fetches tellers of tales
and musicians who mute much, muse much, on the tales

the father fetches negresses to dance
among the children, like curious ripenesses
of pattern in the dance’s ripening

for these the musicians make insidious tones
clawing the sing~song of their instruments
the children laugh and jangle a tinny time

the father fetches pageants out of air
scenes of the theatre, vistas and blocks of woods
and curtains like a naive pretence of sleep

among these the musicians strike the instinctive poem
the father fetches his unherded herds
of barbarous tongue, slavered and panting halves

of breath, obedient to his trumpet’s touch
this then is chatillon or as you please
we stand in the tumult of a festival

what festival? this loud, disordered mooch?
these hospitaliers? these brute~like guests?
these musicians dubbing at a tragedy

a~dub, a~dub, which is made up of this:
that there are no lines to speak? there is no play
or, the persons act one merely by being here

it is a theatre floating through the clouds
itself a cloud, although of misted rock
and mountains running like water, wave on wave

through waves of light. it is of cloud transformed
to cloud transformed again, idly, the way
a season changes color to no end

except the lavishing of itself in change
as light changes yellow into gold and gold
to its opal elements and fire’s delight

splashed wide~wise because it likes magnificence
and the solemn pleasures of magnificent sp~ce
the cloud drifts idly through half~thought~of forms

the theatre is filled with flying birds
wild wedges, as of a volcano’s smoke, palm~eyed
and vanishing, a web in a corridor

or massive portico. a capitol
it may be, is emerging or has just
collapsed. the denouement has to be postponed . .

this is nothing until in a single man contained
nothing until this named thing nameless is
and is destroyed. he opens the door of his house

on flames. the scholar of one candle sees
an arctic effulgence flaring on the frame
of everything he is. and he feels afraid

vii

is there an imagination that sits enthroned
as grim as it is benevolent, the just
and the unjust, which in the midst of summer stops

to imagine winter? when the leaves are dead
does it take its place in the north and enfold itself
goat~leaper, crystalled and luminous, sitting

in highest night? and do these heavens adorn
and proclaim it, the white creator of black, jetted
by extinguishings, even of planets as may be

even of earth, even of sight, in snow
except as needed by way of majesty
in the sky, as crown and diamond cabala?

it leaps through us, through all our heavens leaps
extinguishing our planets, one by one
leaving, of where we were and looked, of where

we knew each other and of each other thought
a shivering residue, chilled and foregone
except for that crown and mystical cabala

but it dare not leap by chance in its own dark
it must change from destiny to slight caprice
and thus its jetted tragedy, its stele

and shape and mournful making move to find
what must unmake it and, at last, what can
say, a flippant communication under the moon

viii

there may be always a time of innocence
there is never a place. or if there is no time
if it is not a thing of time, nor of place

existing in the idea of it, alone
in the sense against calamity, it is not
less real. for the oldest and coldest philosopher

there is or may be a time of innocence
as pure principle. its nature is its end
that it should be, and yet not be, a thing

that pinches the pity of the pitiful man
like a book at evening beautiful but untrue
like a book on rising beautiful and true

it is like a thing of ether that exists
almost as predicate. but it exists
it exists, it is visible, it is, it is

so, then, these lights are not a spell of light
a saying out of a cloud, but innocence
an innocence of the earth and no false sign

or symbol of malice. that we partake thereof
lie down like children in this holiness
as if, awake, we lay in the quiet of sleep

as if the innocent mother sang in the dark
of the room and on an accordion, half~heard
created the time and place in which we breathed . .

and of each other thought—in the idiom
of the work, in the idiom of an innocent earth
not of the enigma of the guilty dream

we were as danes in denmark all day long
and knew each other well, hale~hearted landsmen
for whom the outlandish was another day

of the week, queerer than sunday. we thought alike
and that made brothers of us in a home
in which we fed on being brothers, fed

and fattened as on a decorous honeycomb
this drama that we live—we lay sticky with sleep
this sense of the activity of fate—

the rendezvous, when she came alone
by her coming became a freedom of the two
an isolation which only the two could share

shall we be found hanging in the trees next spring?
of what disaster in this the imminence:
bare limbs, bare trees and a wind as sharp as salt?

the stars are putting on their glittering belts
they throw around their shoulders cloaks that flash
like a great shadow’s last embellishment

it may come tomorrow in the simplest word
almost as part of innocence, almost
almost as the tenderest and the truest part

an unhappy people in a happy world—
read, rabbi, the phases of this difference
an unhappy people in an unhappy world—

here are too many mirrors for misery
a happy people in an unhappy world—
it cannot be. there’s nothing there to roll

on the expressive tongue, the finding fang
a happy people in a happy world—
buffo! a ball, an opera, a bar

turn back to where we were when we began:
an unhappy people in a happy world
now, solemnize the secretive syllables

read to the congregation, for today
and for tomorrow, this extremity
this contrivance of the spectre of the spheres

contriving balance to contrive a whole
the vital, the never~failing g~nius
fulfilling his meditations, great and small

in these unhappy he meditates a whole
the full of fortune and the full of fate
as if he lived all lives, that he might know

in hall harridan, not hushful paradise
to a haggling of wind and weather, by these lights
like a blaze of summer straw, in winter’s nick

- lirik lagu wallace stevens

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