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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=534905" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Man On The Dump</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.<br>The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche<br>Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…The dump is full<br>Of images. Days pass like papers from a press.<br>The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun,<br>And so the moon, both come, and the janitor's poems<br>Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears,<br>The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box<br>From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.<br>The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says<br>That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs<br>More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.<br>The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green<br>Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea<br>On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew<br>For buttons, how many women have covered themselves<br>With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads<br>Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew.<br>One grows to hate these things except on the dump.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,<br>Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox) ,<br>Between that disgust and this, between the things<br>That are on the dump (azaleas and so on) <br>And those that will be (azaleas and so on) ,<br>One feels the purifying change. One rejects<br>The trash.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> That's the moment when the moon creeps up<br>To the bubbling of bassoons. That's the time<br>One looks at the elephant-colorings of tires.<br>Everything is shed; and the moon comes up as the moon<br>(All its images are in the dump) and you see<br>As a man (not like an image of a man) ,<br>You see the moon rise in the empty sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.<br>One beats and beats for that which one believes.<br>That's what one wants to get near. Could it after all<br>Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear<br>To a crow's voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear,<br>Pack the heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear<br>Solace itself in peevish birds? Is it peace,<br>Is it a philosopher's honeymoon, one finds<br>On the dump? Is it to sit among mattresses of the dead,<br>Bottles, pots, shoes, and grass and murmur aptest eve:<br>Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and say<br>Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull<br>The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone? <br>Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=534905" data-title="The Man On The Dump de Wallace Stevens" data-description="Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche
Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…The dump is full
Of images. Days pass like papers from a press.
The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun,
And so th..."></div>
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