Page:Harmonium - Wallace Stevens.djvu/128

 Among the arrant spices of the sun, O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom We give ourselves our likest issuance. Yet not too like, yet not so like to be Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs The difference that heavenly pity brings. For this, musician, in your girdle fixed Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear A band entwining, set with fatal stones. Unreal, give back to us what once you gave: The imagination that we spurned and crave.