Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
The disbeliever walked the moonlit place,
Outside of gates of hammered serafin,
Observing the moon-blotches on the walls.
The yellow rocked across the still facades,
Or else sat spinning on the pinnacles,
While he imagined humming sounds and sleep.
The walker in the moonlight walked alone,
And each blank window of the building balked
His loneliness and what was in his mind:
If in a shimmering room the babies came,
Drawn closе by dreams of fledgling wing,
It was becausе night nursed them in its fold.
Night nursed not him in whose dark mind
The clambering wings of birds of black revolved,
Making harsh torment of the solitude.
The walker in the moonlight walked alone,
And in his heart his disbelief lay cold.
His broad-brimmed hat came close upon his eyes.
Palace of the Babies was written by Wallace Stevens.