By: Wallace Stevens

In the far South the sun of
autumn is passing

Like Walt Whitman walking
along a ruddy shore.

He is singing and chanting the
things that are part of him.

The worlds that were and will be,
death and day.

Nothing is final, he chants.
No man shall see the end.

His beard is of fire and
his staff is a leaping flame.

Note: This poem has a controversial title. I have used the generally preferred title, but the original title is complicated. There is a good discussion of this here: https://digitalcommons.library.umaine.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1021&context=etd