Sister and mother and diviner love, <br />And of the sisterhood of the living dead <br />Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom, <br />And of the fragrant mothers the most dear <br />And queen, and of diviner love the day <br />And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread <br />Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown <br />Its venom of renown, and on your head <br />No crown is simpler than the simple hair. <br /> <br />Now, of the music summoned by the birth <br />That separates us from the wind and sea, <br />Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes, <br />By being so much of the things we are, <br />Gross effigy and simulacrum, none <br />Gives motion to perfection more serene <br />Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought, <br />Most rare, or ever of more kindred air <br />In the laborious weaving that you wear. <br /> <br />For so retentive of themselves are men <br />That music is intensest which proclaims <br />The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom, <br />And of all the vigils musing the obscure, <br />That apprehends the most which sees and names, <br />As in your name, an image that is sure, <br />Among the arrant spices of the sun, <br />O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom <br />We give ourselves our likest issuance. <br /> <br />Yet not too like, yet not so like to be <br />Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow <br />Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs <br />The difference that heavenly pity brings. <br />For this, musician, in your girdle fixed <br />Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear <br />A band entwining, set with fatal stones. <br />Unreal, give back to us what once you gave: <br />The imagination that we spurned and crave. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Adriana C<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-one-of-fictive-music/
