Stevens’ Women

Wallace Stevens

Another Weeping Woman

 

Pour the unhappiness out
From your too bitter heart,
Which grieving will not sweeten.

 

Poison grows in this dark.
It is in the water of tears
Its black blooms rise.

 

The magnificent cause of being,
The imagination, the one reality
In this imagined world

 

Leaves you
With him for whom no phantasy moves,
And you are pierced by a death.