Weaker and weaker, the sunlight falls
In the afternoon. The proud and the strong
Those that are left are the unaccomplished,
The finally human,
Natives of a dwindled sphere.
Their indigence is an indigence
That is an indigence of the light,
A stellar pallor that hangs on the threads.
Little by little, the poverty
Of autumnal space becomes
A look, a few words spoken.
Each person completely touches us
With what he is and as he is,
In the stale grandeur of annihilation.
-Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
From The Palm at the End of the Mind, ed. Holly Stevens (New York: Vintage Books, 1990), 383-384.