Wind, rising in the alleys,
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unshaped dreams ...
You are laden with beginnings ...
There is hope in you ... not sweet ... acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising out of the alleys
Carrying stuff of flame.
_Wallace Stevens_
Wallace Stevens, of Hartford, Connecticut, is a poet whose peculiar
quality is only exceeded by his reticence. He has scrupulously kept
out of the public eye, has printed his poetry only at rare intervals
and, though much of his work has been highly praised, has
steadfastly refused to publish a volume.
Stevens’s best work may be found in the three _Others_ anthologies,
edited by Alfred Kreymborg. Some of it is penetrative, more than a
little is puzzling and all of it is provocative. In spite of what
seems a weary disdain, Stevens is a more than skilful decorator and,
like T. S. Eliot, combines irony and glamour in a highly original
idiom.