SUNDAY MORNING

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from beauty. These are the words of the poet: The morning grass is like a family Heard in jubilant love; no time for sleep. Once in a while comes dark from the trees. But the once in a while is here; Now is the morning of the romantic gaze.

There is no ending to the beauty of this world, But the poet knows no better hope, And desires for the heart to live. The loss of something rich in the mind; The stars forever primal in the night.

• Wallace Stevens