What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
To The Roaring Wind
About the poet
Wallace Stevens
1879 - 1955/Male/AmericanA Modernist poet whose meditative and philosophical poems' moods rotate between ecstasy, apathy, and reluctance between ecstasy and apathy. (wikipedia)
View profile & all 50 Poems / StoriesMore from Wallace Stevens
Sea Surface Full Of Clouds
IIn that November off Tehuantepec,The slopping of the sea grew still one night
A Dish of Peaches in Russia
With my whole body I taste these peaches,I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?I absorb them as the Angevine
A Clear Day and No Memories
No soldiers in the scenery,No thoughts of people now dead,
Asides on the Oboe
The prologues are over. It is a question, now,Of final belief. So, say that final belief
The Gray Room
Although you sit in a room that is gray,Except for the silver
