The white cock’s tail Tosses in the wind. The turkey-cock’s tail Glitters in the sun.
Water in the fields. The wind pours down. The feathers flare And bluster in the wind.
Remus, blow your horn! I’m ploughing on Sunday, Ploughing North America. Blow your horn!
Tum-ti-tum, Ti-tum-tum-tum! The turkey-cock’s tail Spreads to the sun.
The white cock’s tail Streams to the moon. Water in the fields. The wind pours down.
Barque of phosphor On the palmy beach,
Move outward into heaven, Into the alabasters And night blues.
Foam and cloud are one. Sultry moon-monsters Are dissolving.
Fill your black hull With white moonlight.
There will never be an end To this droning of the surf.
My candle burned alone in an immense valley. Beams of the huge night converged upon it, Until the wind blew. Then beams of the huge night Converged upon its image, Until the wind blew.
Huge are the canna in the dreams of X, the mighty thought, the mighty man. They fill the terrace of his capitol.
His thought sleeps not. Yet thought that wakes In sleep may never meet another thought Or thing.... Now day-break comes....
X promenades the dewy stones, Observes the canna with a clinging eye, Observes and then continues to observe.
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air, Reading where I have written, “The spring is like a belle undressing.”
The gold tree is blue. The singer has pulled his cloak over his head. The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
Let the place of the solitaires Be a place of perpetual undulation.
Whether it be in mid-sea On the dark, green water-wheel, Or on the beaches, There must be no cessation Of motion, or of the noise of motion, The renewal of noise And manifold continuation;
And, most, of the motion of thought And its restless iteration,
In the place of the solitaires, Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.
First Girl
When this yokel comes maundering, Whetting his hacker, I shall run before him, Diffusing the civilest odors Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers. It will check him.
Second Girl
I shall run before him, Arching cloths besprinkled with colors As small as fish-eggs. The threads Will abash him.
Third Girl
Oh, la ... le pauvre! I shall run before him, With a curious puffing. He will bend his ear then. I shall whisper Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals. It will undo him.
The cock crows But no queen rises.
The hair of my blonde Is dazzling, As the spittle of cows Threading the wind.
Ho! Ho!
But ki-ki-ri-ki Brings no rou-cou, No rou-cou-cou.
But no queen comes In slipper green.
Wallace Stevens, born in 1879 and died in 1955, was an American modernist poet who spent most of his career as an executive at an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. His first collection, Harmonium, appeared in 1923 but received little attention at the time; later collections such as Ideas of Order and The Man with the Blue Guitar established his reputation. Stevens's poetry typically investigates the interplay between the imagination and the real world, frequently using natural scenes and acts of perception as subject matter. His style is noted for its precise, sometimes unusual diction, elaborate metaphors, and a tone that shifts between playful and solemn. He often wrote about the function of the poet and the capacity of art to create meaning without reliance on religious doctrine. His later works, including The Auroras of Autumn and the posthumous collection The Rock, extend these themes with greater austerity. In 1955, his Collected Poems was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Stevens's work is widely anthologized and continues to be examined in academic criticism. His poetry has been influential for writers concerned with philosophical approaches to verse.
Apprentissage pas à pas, enregistrements vocaux à partager et rappels de révision.
