The Man with the Blue Guitar

Three evenings gathered to clear the road; Yet were tulip-mountains on the way; Mountains met, folds somehow to me, and straight
Into the blueness of it all, while Free sheets of glass fell through the night.

For the bright asked; and he had given,
To those who had nothing of note to remark ; Of a global flourish and flaunt, embraced, The music, it eclipsed—followed
Through supple whorled, whisper-thin threads of wind,
Again sung forth under the tensions of the soft sky.

Nor did I fare alone, nor walk with pride,
Beyond the advantages of long gone shapes,
But as the noise of the string changed the air,
The silence persists, ungrasped it seems.

Where wave unto me become true at last,
I hold my peace in the vapor of blue,
Fog, that soft intent confounded by shapes,
And the fair mirage other than shadow,
Though I hear again the still notes stick,
Filling the room, each eye feels free.

• Wallace Stevens