Wallace Stevens - To an Old Philosopher in Rome lyrics

On the threshold of heaven, the figures in the street Become the figures of heaven, the majestic movement Of men growing small in the distances of space, Singing, with smaller and still smaller sound, Unintelligible absolution and an end— The threshold, Rome, and that more merciful Rome Beyond, the two alike in the make of the mind. It is as if in a human dignity Two parallels become one, a perspective, of which Men are part both in the inch and in the mile. How easily the blown banners change to wings . . . Things dark on the horizons of perception, Become accompaniments of fortune, but Of the fortune of the spirit, beyond the eye, Not of its sphere, and yet not far beyond, The human end in the spirit's greatest reach, The extreme of the known in the presence of the extreme Of the unknown. The newsboys' muttering Becomes another murmuring; the smell Of medicine, a fragrantness not to be spoiled . . . The bed, the books, the chair, the moving nuns, The candle as it evades the sight, these are The sources of happiness in the shape of Rome, A shape within the ancient circles of shapes, And these beneath the shadow of a shape In a confusion on bed and books, a portent On the chair, a moving transparence on the nuns, A light on the candle tearing against the wick To join a hovering excellence, to escape From fire and be part only of that which Fire is the symbol: the celestial possible. Speak to your pillow as if it was yourself. Be orator but with an accurate tongue And without eloquence, O, half-asleep, Of the pity that is the memorial of this room, So that we feel, in this illumined large, The veritable small, so that each of us Beholds himself in you, and hears his voice In yours, master and commiserable man, Intent on your particles of nether-do, Your dozing in the depths of wakefulness, In the warmth of your bed, at the edge of your chair, alive Yet living in two worlds, impenitent As to one, and, as to one, most penitent, Impatient for the grandeur that you need In so much misery; and yet finding it Only in misery, the afflatus of ruin, Profound poetry of the poor and of the dead, As in the last drop of the deepest blood, As it falls from the heart and lies there to be seen, Even as the blood of an empire, it might be, For a citizen of heaven though still of Rome. It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene. And you—it is you that speak it, without speech, The loftiest syllable among loftiest things, The one invulnerable man among Crude captains, the naked majesty, if you like, Of bird-nest arches and of rain-stained-vaults. The sounds drift in. The buildings are remembered. The life of the city never lets go, nor do you Ever want it to. It is part of the life in your room. Its domes are the architecture of your bed. The bells keep on repeating solemn names In choruses and choirs of choruses, Unwilling that mercy should be a mystery Of silence, that any solitude of sense Should give you more than their peculiar chords And reverberations clinging to whisper still. It is a kind of total grandeur at the end, With every visible thing enlarged and yet No more than a bed, a chair and moving nuns, The immensest theatre, and pillared porch, The book and candle in your ambered room, Total grandeur of a total edifice, Chosen by an inquisitor of structures For himself. He stops upon this threshold, As if the design of all his words takes form And frame from thinking and is realized.