The Emperor of Ice-Cream

Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the small field of the earth The slight largeness. Let death make these curdled No little, let be known. The big cold hand that spares flesh Will offer all, for whom we keep.

Let lips be warm; tongues, able Will drink nectar from The mountain tops, shed small rusts. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

• Wallace Stevens