The Emperor of Ice-Cream

Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular man, and let him Lurid the butter that’s had its knock, The green shut on the garden.

Let be be final, the last soul said, The black-eyed sultry girl, Black-eyed or not so lately, still blushes, The face that’s so well greenery.

Let the solid air unroll, That hope may die with all the rest, And if not, then the sun. Bring out the golden things That are the curious tombs.

Let be, be the final. Let the taste at the hour of one, And let loose the yawning Of delight that only comes back.

Let the flesh sing, While the body slips out, And join all souls at the apple’s edge.

— Wallace Stevens, “The Emperor of Ice-Cream”

• Wallace Stevens