I <br />To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times, <br />To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude <br />And so, as part, to exult with its great throat, <br /> <br /> <br />To speak of joy and to sing of it, borne on <br />The shoulders of joyous men, to feel the heart <br />That is the common, the bravest fundament, <br /> <br /> <br />This is a facile exercise. Jerome <br />Begat the tubas and the fire-wind strings, <br />The golden fingers picking dark-blue air: <br /> <br /> <br />For companies of voices moving there, <br />To find of sound the bleakest ancestor, <br />To find of light a music issuing <br /> <br /> <br />Whereon it falls in more than sensual mode. <br />But the difficultest rigor is forthwith, <br />On the image of what we see, to catch from that <br /> <br /> <br />Irrational moment its unreasoning, <br />As when the sun comes rising, when the sea <br />Clears deeply, when the moon hangs on the wall <br /> <br /> <br />Of heaven-haven. These are not things transformed. <br />Yet we are shaken by them as if they were. <br />We reason about them with a later reason.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-must-give-pleasure/
