These locusts by day, these crickets by night Are the instruments on which to play Of an old and disused ambit of the soul Or of a new aspect, bright in discovery— A disused ambit of the spirit’s way, The sort of thing that August crooners sing, By a pure fountain, that was a ghost, and is, Under the sun-slides of a sloping mountain; Or else a new aspect, say the spirit's sex, Its attitudes, its answers to attitudes And the sex of its voices, as the voice of one Meets nakedly another’s naked voice. — From "Things of August" by Wallace Stevens |
From a 2003 "Plato's Caveman" post . . .
* Cf. San Joaquin Flashback .