You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning
In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon-
The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed
Where you yourself were never quite yourself
And did not want nor have to be,
Desiring the exhilirations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary moon
The A B C of being,
The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound-
Steel against intimation - the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.
From the Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, pg. 288