Indeed, Sunday Morning
Wallace Stevens is a notoriously difficult poet, if you trust what you hear tell. But this, the eighth section of a poem entitled "Sunday Morning" seems eerily prophetic. For indeed, at the waning of his Life, that Tomb in Palestine, which lay empty, called him home to the Darkness which, in fact is so light that we cannot see it.
from "Sunday Morning" Wallace Stevens VIII She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." 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. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
