by Wallace Stevens

Of Heaven Considered as a Tomb


What word have you, interpreters, of men
 Who in the tomb of heaven walk by night,
 The darkened ghosts of our old comedy?
 Do they believe they range the gusty cold,
 With lanterns borne aloft to light the way,
 Freemen of death, about and still about
 To find whatever they seek? Or does
 That burial, pillared up each day as porte
 And spiritous passage into nothingness,
 Foretell each night the one abysmal night
 When the host shall no more wander, nor the light
 Of the steadfast lanterns creep across the dark?
 Make hue among the dark comedians,
 Halloo them in the topmost distances
 For answer from their icy Élysée.




Poetry by Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 938 times
Written on 2014-02-19 at 16:51

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text

Commentally Ill

i read it aloud to appreciate the musical timbre of my own voice. seemed to roll right off the tongue

right up until. the very last. word.

how thoughtful of the author to remind me of how dumb and uncultured i am. and this, right after bringing up my mortality (he is a real charmer, that one).

although with a voice like mine, i do suppose i needed taken down a peg or two.


*dogs howl. car alarms go off. glass shatters and paint peels off the walls. people cry*

see? it is a gift. or perhaps a tactical weapon. *shrug*

thank you for posting more fodder (er, i mean poetry),