My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,
Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone,
But every agony my heart has known,—
The new-born trusts that died, the drift of storms.
I visit every day the shadowy grove;
I bury there my outraged tender thought;
I bring the insult for the love I sought,
And my contempt, where I had tried to love.
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...
