Sunday Morning

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her. This is not for philosophy But for the heart’s sake; and by the heart alone One knows. One searches and knows; But what one knows is not of the heart.

It is of life that that beauty arises— That is beauty, the sensuous, the miraculous, That mellows into the beauty wreathed of tomorrow. Nature avenged, tells a different story, For woman with her meadow thoughts in mind, Is beauty’s lovely act of what one wants, One breathes the hallowed air. In the verdant scene of morning sunlight, And cloven paths amid the thickened grass, It is brutal to resist the allure, The daring splendor of the day; For to breathe the air is to honor Both the sun and every shining planet, The stars that pierce through the firmament.

And by these stars on high, We can feel the warmth of life, For we ourselves are alive within, Surrounded by the pronouncement of existence, We are beauty incarnate for the heart alone To see. I am a part of all this. So much to breathe in, and love unconditionally. All struggles are gentle strokes upon the surface, A meaning beneath the stillness of the stars.

Ah, my dear, then let me be, In this serenity, aware of the peace; Let the death that calamities bring Be still and quiet inside. Let the soul be good by grace.

Only the flesh endures the beatitudes, And she knows. Indeed she knows. She breathes of life today; with everything, Fragility is all the more exquisite; Life awakens the heart gently, And one can only love here. And again we touch the soul.

• Wallace Stevens