The Emperor of Ice-Cream

Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Let the blunt, melting consummation, in honor, Conjoin the thing of perfect dissolution. Our people, and their countenance, big with laughter,
Hold us the last of laughter;
Whether there be sculptured symmetry or remnant,
It’s of innumerable sets and scenes,
Do not go; no more to return, uncertain
As it establishes, willed and won in perfect heraldry.

The chill satisfies—to which we give glances,
Sorrows of the abdicated fly.
In the splendor of the instant we eat,
The cream does evoke its blow,
Our grace—which is restless, full.

The tissue of petals arranged in death,
While soft cations return from hands that play like the wind,
And succumbs to reasons with the trick of rigor,
There is bright in it; the understanding, still it lays;
Here are eyes asleep but breathing dreams,
Always walking, as souls in their wintered lust.

• Wallace Stevens