Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of <br /> the end. <br />Seal him there. He looked in a glass of the earth and thought <br /> he lived in it. <br />Now, he brings all that he saw into the earth, to the waiting <br /> parent. <br />His crisp knowledge is devoured by her, beneath a dew. <br /> <br /> <br />Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the <br /> moon. <br />It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing he <br /> could be told. <br />It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know. <br />It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak. <br /> <br /> <br />The black fugatos are strumming the blackness of black... <br />The thick strings stutter the finial gutturals. <br />He does not lie there remembering the blue-jay, say the jay. <br />His grief is that his mother should feed on him, himself and <br /> what he saw, <br />In that distant chamber, a bearded queen, wicked in her dead <br /> light.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/madame-la-fleurie/
