The leaves hop, scraping on the ground.
It is deep January. The sky is hard.
The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
It is in this solitude, a syllable,
Out of these gawky flitterings,
Intones its single emptiness,
The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
~Wallace Stevens, from "No Possum, No Sop, No Taters," first published in New Poems 1943: An Anthology of British and American Verse edited by Oscar Williams
It is deep January. The sky is hard.
The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
It is in this solitude, a syllable,
Out of these gawky flitterings,
Intones its single emptiness,
The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
~Wallace Stevens, from "No Possum, No Sop, No Taters," first published in New Poems 1943: An Anthology of British and American Verse edited by Oscar Williams
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