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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Wallace Stevens

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Weeping Burgher

Wallace Stevens

From “Pecksniffiana”

IT is with a strange malice

That I distort the world.

Ah! that ill humors

Should mask as white girls.

And ah! that Scaramouche

Should have a black barouche.

The sorry verities!

Yet in excess, continual,

There is cure of sorrow.

Permit that if as ghost I come

Among the people burning in me still,

I come as belle design

Of foppish line.

And I, then, tortured for old speech—

A white of wildly woven rings;

I, weeping in a calcined heart—

My hands such sharp, imagined things.