A Postcard From The Volcano Poem by Wallace Stevens

A Postcard From The Volcano

Rating: 3.5

Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;

And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost;

And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is ... Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

Sylvia Frances Chan 11 November 2021

Very lovely Three liners, but also very eerie.5 Stars full for this delicate haunting poem

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Chinedu Dike 09 November 2021

An insightful piece of poetry written with conviction...........

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Rose Marie Juan-austin 09 November 2021

A powerful and well expressed poem. Compelling imagery.

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Suzanne 07 May 2018

A magnificent haunting poem by one of my favorite poets....

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Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens

Pennsylvania / United States
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