This poem by Wal­lace Stevens recounts the details of a wake for a dead woman. I love the con­sci­en­tious poetry of the poem, the dec­o­ra­tions (“…kitchen cups con­cu­pis­cent curds”), the con­di­tion­als (“let…”),and the dec­la­ra­tions (“The only emperor is…”). Let being be the end of seem­ing. I know no tighter phrase for the enig­matic cage that is a mind with a body.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

Call the roller of big cig­ars,
The mus­cu­lar one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups con­cu­pis­cent curds.
Let the wenches daw­dle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flow­ers in last month’s news­pa­pers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal.
Lack­ing the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroi­dered fan­tails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet pro­trude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

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