Montrachet-Le- Jardin
34
Wallace Stevens
What more is there to love than I have loved?
And
if
there be nothing more, 0 bright, 0 bright,
The chick, the chidder-barn and grassy chives
And great moon, cricket-impresario,
And, hoy, the impopulous purple-plated past,
Hoy, hoy, the blue bulls kneeling down to rest.
Chome! clicks the clock, if there be nothing more.
But
if,
but
if
there be something more to love,
Something in now a senseless syllable,
A shadow in the mind, a fiourisher
Of sounds resembling sounds, effiorisant,
Approaching the feelings or come down from them,
These other shadows, not in the mind, players
Of aphonies, tuned
in
from zero and
Beyond, futura's fuddle-fiddling lumps,
But if there be something more to love, amen,
Amen to the feelings about familiar things,
The blessed regal dropped in daggers' dew,
Amen to thought, our singular skeleton,
Salt-flicker, amen to our accustomed cell,
The moonlight in the cell, words on the wall.
To-night, night's undeciphered murmuring
Comes close to the prisoner's ear, becomes a throat
The hand can touch, neither green bronze nor marble,
