Sunday Morning

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her. This is a brief essay of a world Without the supernatural.

We consider of a Sunday morning, On a pure, clear day, The simplest things, the livers and waters, The rocks and changing colours of the woods, Monuments of the world.

Nothing could matter more. The whole earth is this. The world must be Pushed from the mind, life must be free, Here lives the indifference of loss and gain, Of riches and nothingness, Of comings and goings, of flowers and weeds.

Beauty dies into the earth and the earth grows In the sunlight. That which is beautiful must live, And the life of the moon and of the sun Be seated in harmony with man, Must exist within beauty, to create.

To live in the world of design, To have place, to be placed, to find, to be found; To reach within the warmth of the day, To know what is possible of heart and breath, And of the complex transfers of the wheel.

• Wallace Stevens