A Poem by Wallace Stevens

In the lull between writing some new poems of my own, I’m using this blog to post some of my favorite poems.  I love this one by Wallace Stevens.  Even on an icy January afternoon, it carries me off:

The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm 

    By Wallace Stevens

 

  The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,

Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much to be

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,

In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself

Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

The Reader, 1933   by Henry A. Payne