I think the spell is gone from out my singing,
The music from my songs,
But stilly Belov'd, the best of all my bringing
To you belongs,
I did not know there were so many weeping
On earth, the splendid place;
To whom the night brings neither dreams nor sleeping,
But Sorrow's face.
I did not know there were so many waited
For what can never come;
So many wayfaring who stray belated.
And have no home.
So, though my own feet tread the way of gladness,
Where flowers you planted grow,
My lute-strings throb and answer to the sadness
That others know.
Why Wallace Stevens’ Poetry is the Ultimate Guide to Mindful Living and the Antidote to the AI Era
Although he appeared as a poet relatively late in his career, the author left...
