light the first light of evening, as in a room in which we rest and, for small reason, think the world imagined is the ultimate good.
this, therefore, the intensest rendezvous. it is in that thought that we collect ourselves, out of all the indifferences, into one thing:
within a single thing, a single shawl wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth, a light, a power, the miraculous influence.
here, now, we forget each other and ourselves. we feel the obscurity of an order, a whole, a knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
within its vital boundary, in the mind. we say god and the imagination are one... how high that highest candle lights the dark.
out of this same light, out of the central mind, we make a dwelling in the evening air, in which being there together is enough.
['final soliloquy of the interior paramour' by wallace stevens, 1954]
