Wallace Stevens - The Connoisseur of Chaos lyrics
[Wallace Stevens - The Connoisseur of Chaos lyrics]
A a violent order is a disorder and
B a great disorder is an order these
Two things are one (Pages of illustrations)
If all the green of spring was blue
And it is if all the flowers of
South Africa were bright
On the tables of Connecticut, and they are
If Englishmen lived without tea in Ceylon
And they do
And if it all went on in an orderly way
And it does a law of inherent opposites
Of essential unity, is as pleasant as port
As pleasant as the brush-strokes of a bough
An upper, particular bough in, say, Marchand
After all the pretty contrast
Of life and death
Proves that these opposite things
Partake of one
At least that was the theory
When bishops' books
Resolved the world we cannot go back to that
The squirming facts exceed the squamous mind
If one may say so and yet relation appears
A small relation expanding like the shade
Of a cloud on sand
A shape on the side of a hill
A well, an old order is a violent one
This proves nothing just one more truth
One more
Element in the immense disorder of truths
B it is April as I write the wind
Is blowing after days of constant rain
All this, of course, will come to summer soon
But suppose the disorder of
Truths should ever come
To an order, most Plantagenet, most fixed
A great disorder is an order now, A
And B are not like statuary, posed
For a vista in the Louvre
They are things chalked
On the sidewalk so that the
Pensive man may see
The pensive man he sees the eagle float
For which the intricate Alps
Are a single nest
B a great disorder is an order these
Two things are one (Pages of illustrations)
If all the green of spring was blue
And it is if all the flowers of
South Africa were bright
On the tables of Connecticut, and they are
If Englishmen lived without tea in Ceylon
And they do
And if it all went on in an orderly way
And it does a law of inherent opposites
Of essential unity, is as pleasant as port
As pleasant as the brush-strokes of a bough
An upper, particular bough in, say, Marchand
After all the pretty contrast
Of life and death
Proves that these opposite things
Partake of one
At least that was the theory
When bishops' books
Resolved the world we cannot go back to that
The squirming facts exceed the squamous mind
If one may say so and yet relation appears
A small relation expanding like the shade
Of a cloud on sand
A shape on the side of a hill
A well, an old order is a violent one
This proves nothing just one more truth
One more
Element in the immense disorder of truths
B it is April as I write the wind
Is blowing after days of constant rain
All this, of course, will come to summer soon
But suppose the disorder of
Truths should ever come
To an order, most Plantagenet, most fixed
A great disorder is an order now, A
And B are not like statuary, posed
For a vista in the Louvre
They are things chalked
On the sidewalk so that the
Pensive man may see
The pensive man he sees the eagle float
For which the intricate Alps
Are a single nest