It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
/ Whatever self it had, became the self
/ That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
/ As we beheld her striding there alone,
/ Knew that there never was a world for her
/ Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
/// From The Idea of Order at key West, Wallace Stevens
