Monday, September 18, 2006

Gray Room

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

--Wallace Stevens


sam of the ten thousand things said...

I like Stevens. A poet to get lost in.

John Gallaher said...

I don't remember coming across this poem before. It's wonderful. Thank you for posting it.

Suzanne said...

My pleasure!

Unknown said...

I love his work. And you know, he's more sensitive in this one, I like that -- he can do a love poem. I never realized it. But of course. he can do anything. (damn him!)