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Wallace Stevens - Phases
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I. 
There’s a little square in Paris, 
Waiting until we pass. 
They sit idly there, 
They sip the glass. 


There’s a cab-horse at the corner, 
There`s rain. The season grieves. 
It was silver once, 
And green with leaves. 


There’s a parrot in a window, 
Will see us on parade, 
Hear the loud drums roll— 
And serenade. 


                           II. 
This was the salty taste of glory, 
That it was not 
Like Agamemnon’s story. 
Only, an eyeball in the mud, 
And Hopkins, 
Flat and pale and gory! 


                           III. 
But the bugles, in the night, 
Were wings that bore 
To where our comfort was; 


Arabesques of candle beams, 
Winding 
Through our heavy dreams; 


Winds that blew 
Where the bending iris grew; 


Birds of intermitted bliss, 
Singing in the night`s abyss; 


Vines with yellow fruit, 
That fell 
Along the walls 
That bordered Hell. 


                           IV. 
Death`s nobility again 
Beautified the simplest men. 
Fallen Winkle felt the pride 
Of Agamemnon 
When he died. 


What could London’s 
Work and waste 
Give him— 
To that salty, sacrificial taste? 


What could London’s 
Sorrow bring— 
To that short, triumphant sting?
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