Quotation by Wallace Stevens

The bud of the apple is desire, the down-falling gold,
The catbird's gobble in the morning half-awake
These are real only if I make them so. Whistle
For me, grow green for me and, as you whistle and grow green,
Intangible arrows quiver and stick in the skin
And I taste at the root of the tongue the unreal of what is real.
Surprise me with a
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