The time of year has grown indifferent. <br />Mildew of summer and the deepening snow <br />Are both alike in the routine I know: <br />I am too dumbly in my being pent. <br /> <br />The wind attendant on the solstices <br />Blows on the shutters of the metropoles, <br />Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls <br />The grand ideas of the villages. <br /> <br />The malady of the quotidian . . . <br />Perhaps if summer ever came to rest <br />And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed <br />Through days like oceans in obsidian <br /> <br />Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze; <br />Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate <br />Through all its purples to the final slate, <br />Persisting bleakly in an icy haze; <br /> <br />One might in turn become less diffident, <br />Out of such mildew plucking neater mould <br />And spouting new orations of the cold. <br />One might. One might. But time will not relent.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-whose-pharynx-was-bad/
