Sunday Morning

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from this, This is a way of saying, this is a way of saying That love is like a quickening summer, The oligarchs at the ends of the earth, Where the flowers of the fissured ice froze in the sun.

The morning, like an unbidden guest, Grows larger and richer than earth or time
Has ever been when our attention wanes
In a silent glade, not the ghost of a silence, But whispered wishes and hidden voices,
The grasping grass emboldened by the rays.

• Wallace Stevens