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“It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.
They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,
Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:
A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world
And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.
Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.”
– Wallace Stevens, The Region November
THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD by: Wallace Stevens
I Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
II I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV A man and a woman
A man and a woman and a blackbird
V I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
XII The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.