"Who can think of the sun costuming clouds
When all people are shaken
Or of night endazzled, proud,
When people awaken
The warm antiquity of self,
Everyone, grows suddenly cold.
The tea is bad, bread sad.
How can the world be so old be so mad
That the people die?
If joy shall be without a book
It lies, themselves within themselves,
If they will look
Within themselves
And cry and cry for help,
Within as pillars of the sun,
Supports of night. The tea,
The wine is good. The bread,
The meat is sweet.
And they will not die.
--Wallace Stevens
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