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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336477" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idea of Order at Key West</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sang beyond the genius of the sea. <br>The water never formed to mind or voice, <br>Like a body wholly body, fluttering <br>Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion <br>Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, <br>That was not ours although we understood, <br>Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sea was not a mask. No more was she. <br>The song and water were not medleyed sound <br>Even if what she sang was what she heard, <br>Since what she sang was uttered word by word. <br>It may be that in all her phrases stirred <br>The grinding water and the gasping wind; <br>But it was she and not the sea we heard. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For she was the maker of the song she sang. <br>The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea <br>Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. <br>Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew <br>It was the spirit that we sought and knew <br>That we should ask this often as she sang. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If it was only the dark voice of the sea <br>That rose, or even colored by many waves; <br>If it was only the outer voice of sky <br>And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, <br>However clear, it would have been deep air, <br>The heaving speech of air, a summer sound <br>Repeated in a summer without end <br>And sound alone. But it was more than that, <br>More even than her voice, and ours, among <br>The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, <br>Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped <br>On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres <br>Of sky and sea. <br>It was her voice that made <br>The sky acutest at its vanishing. <br>She measured to the hour its solitude. <br>She was the single artificer of the world <br>In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, <br>Whatever self it had, became the self <br>That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, <br>As we beheld her striding there alone, <br>Knew that there never was a world for her <br>Except the one she sang and, singing, made. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, <br>Why, when the singing ended and we turned <br>Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, <br>The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, <br>As the night descended, tilting in the air, <br>Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, <br>Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, <br>Arranging, deepening, enchanting night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, <br>The maker’s rage to order words of the sea, <br>Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, <br>And of ourselves and of our origins, <br>In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wallace+Stevens">Wallace Stevens</a><div class=q>
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