#C15 The Storm

As I walked from my studio early last night, I saw this ominous gray sky over the horizon. Later that night I did this charcoal and chalk drawing, which looks promising. I hope to make a pastel painting of this one soon.

I am thinking of a quiet house and a calm world, even inside that storm. Where the summer night is like a perfection of thought. There is this longing that won’t go away. At times I wonder if it what keeps us alive.

The House was Quiet and the World Was Calm
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
 
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
 
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
 
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
 
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
 
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
 
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
 
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
Wallace Stevens
This copy from Poetry Foundation
Thanks for visiting my blog!

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