how can the world so old be so mad That the people die?

Who can think of the sun costuming clouds 

When all people are shaken 

Or of night endazzled, proud, 

When people awaken 

And cry and cry for help? 

The warm antiquity of self, 

Everyone, grows suddenly cold. 

The tea is bad, bread sad. 

How can the world so old be so mad 

That the people die? 

If joy shall be without a book 

It lies, themselves within themselves, 

If they will look 

Within themselves 

And cry and cry for help? 

Within as pillars of the sun, 

Supports of night. The tea, 

The wine is good. The bread, 

The meat is sweet. 

And they will not die. 

[Wallace Stevens {1879-1955} 'A Fading of the Sun', from The Collected Poems]