Reading Wallace Stevens: The Palm at the End of the Mind

I. Look in the terrible mirror of the sky. Oh, bend against the invisible and lean To symbols of descending night; and search The glare of revelations going by! Dreaming feet Mythy mind Music is feeling, not sound In witching chords. Whispered refrains Like willows swept by rain. Death is the mother of beauty; from her, Alone, comes fulfilment to our dreams And our desires. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody. Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. Death is the mother of beauty, mystical. Beauty is momentary in the mind-- The fitful tracing of a portal; In the flesh, immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminable flowing. The sun ... sets ... pacing Death, ... knowing Grieves. Opening roses The mind supposes Floating colors; Closes. Noon a turning-- a Burning a Yearning For endless summer. Changing autumn mellows Moons glance When night comes Coloring The cry of peacocks. It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing. And it was going to snow. I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes. I was of three minds: Three blackbirds In a tree. I know a blackbird Is involved In what I know.