Granted, we die for good.
Life, then, is largely a thing
Of happens to like, not should.
And that, too, granted, why
Do I happen to like red bush,
Grey grass and green-gray sky?
What else remains? But red,
Gray, green, why those of all?
That is not what I said:
Not those of all. But those.
One likes what one happens to like.
One likes the way red grows.
It cannot matter at all.
Happens to like is one
Of the ways things happen to fall.
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Comments about this poem (Table Talk by Wallace Stevens )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Where The Mind Is Without Fear, Rabindranath Tagore
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- If, Rudyard Kipling
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