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It debuted in magazine during a year that brought several other Modernist milestones, including T. The first stanza ushers us into a pleasant domestic setting, where a nameless woman lingers over breakfast: Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe …
The timestamp is only as accurate as the clock in the camera, and it may be completely wrong.
Wallace Stevens’s “Sunday Morning” (1915) is a lofty poetic meditation—almost a philosophical discourse—rooted in a few basic questions: what happens to us when we die? If we can’t, what comfort can we take in the only life we get?
Her nonconformity, however, is solidly in the mold of Emily Dickinson, who wrote in the 1860s of “keep[ing] the Sabbath” by “staying at Home” and listening to birds.