The Title


Tinsel in February, tinsel in August.
There are things in a man besides his reason.
Come home, wind, he kept crying and crying.


Snow glistens in its instant in the air,
Instant millefiori bluely magnified–
Come home, wind, he said as he climbed the stair–


Crystal on crystal until crystal clouds
Become an over-crystal of ice,
Exhaling these creations of itself.


There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.
The tinsel of August falling was like a flame
That breathed on ground, more blue than red, more red


Than green, fidgets of all-related fire.
The wind is like a dog that runs away.
But it is like a horse. It is like motion


That lives in space. It is a person at night,
A member of the family, a tie,
An ethereal cousin, another milleman.


                                                             —Wallace Stevens