Sunday Morning Summary & Analysis

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The Full Text of “Sunday Morning”

I

1Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

2Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

3And the green freedom of a cockatoo

4Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

5The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

6She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

7Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

8As a calm darkens among water-lights.

9The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

10Seem things in some procession of the dead,

11Winding across wide water, without sound.

12The day is like wide water, without sound,

13Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

14Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

15Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II

16Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

17What is divinity if it can come

18Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

19Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

20In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

21In any balm or beauty of the earth,

22Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

23Divinity must live within herself:

24Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

25Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

26Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

27Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

28All pleasures and all pains, remembering

29The bough of summer and the winter branch.

30These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

31Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.

32No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave

33Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.

34He moved among us, as a muttering king,

35Magnificent, would move among his hinds,

36Until our blood, commingling, virginal,

37With heaven, brought such requital to desire

38The very hinds discerned it, in a star.

39Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be

40The blood of paradise? And shall the earth

41Seem all of paradise that we shall know?

42The sky will be much friendlier then than now,

43A part of labor and a part of pain,

44And next in glory to enduring love,

45Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

IV

46She says, “I am content when wakened birds,

47Before they fly, test the reality

48Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

49But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

50Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

51There is not any haunt of prophecy,

52Nor any old chimera of the grave,

53Neither the golden underground, nor isle

54Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

55Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm

56Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured

57As April’s green endures; or will endure

58Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

59Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

60By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

V

61She says, “But in contentment I still feel

62The need of some imperishable bliss.”

63Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

64Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams

65And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

66Of sure obliteration on our paths,

67The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

68Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love

69Whispered a little out of tenderness,

70She makes the willow shiver in the sun

71For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze

72Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.

73She causes boys to pile new plums and pears

74On disregarded plate. The maidens taste

75And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

VI

76Is there no change of death in paradise?

77Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

78Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

79Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

80With rivers like our own that seek for seas

81They never find, the same receding shores

82That never touch with inarticulate pang?

83Why set the pear upon those river-banks

84Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

85Alas, that they should wear our colors there,

86The silken weavings of our afternoons,

87And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

88Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

89Within whose burning bosom we devise

90Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

91Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

92Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

93Their boisterous devotion to the sun,

94Not as a god, but as a god might be,

95Naked among them, like a savage source.

96Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

97Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

98And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

99The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

100The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,

101That choir among themselves long afterward.

102They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

103Of men that perish and of summer morn.

104And whence they came and whither they shall go

105The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

106She hears, upon that water without sound,

107A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine

108Is not the porch of spirits lingering.

109It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

110We live in an old chaos of the sun,

111Or old dependency of day and night,

112Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

113Of that wide water, inescapable.

114Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail

115Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;

116Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

117And, in the isolation of the sky,

118At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

119Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

120Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

The Full Text of “Sunday Morning”

I

1Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

2Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

3And the green freedom of a cockatoo

4Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

5The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

6She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

7Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

8As a calm darkens among water-lights.

9The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

10Seem things in some procession of the dead,

11Winding across wide water, without sound.

12The day is like wide water, without sound,

13Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

14Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

15Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II

16Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

17What is divinity if it can come

18Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

19Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

20In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

21In any balm or beauty of the earth,

22Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

23Divinity must live within herself:

24Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

25Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

26Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

27Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

28All pleasures and all pains, remembering

29The bough of summer and the winter branch.

30These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

31Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.

32No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave

33Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.

34He moved among us, as a muttering king,

35Magnificent, would move among his hinds,

36Until our blood, commingling, virginal,

37With heaven, brought such requital to desire

38The very hinds discerned it, in a star.

39Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be

40The blood of paradise? And shall the earth

41Seem all of paradise that we shall know?

42The sky will be much friendlier then than now,

43A part of labor and a part of pain,

44And next in glory to enduring love,

45Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

IV

46She says, “I am content when wakened birds,

47Before they fly, test the reality

48Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

49But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

50Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

51There is not any haunt of prophecy,

52Nor any old chimera of the grave,

53Neither the golden underground, nor isle

54Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

55Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm

56Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured

57As April’s green endures; or will endure

58Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

59Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

60By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

V

61She says, “But in contentment I still feel

62The need of some imperishable bliss.”

63Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

64Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams

65And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

66Of sure obliteration on our paths,

67The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

68Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love

69Whispered a little out of tenderness,

70She makes the willow shiver in the sun

71For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze

72Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.

73She causes boys to pile new plums and pears

74On disregarded plate. The maidens taste

75And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

VI

76Is there no change of death in paradise?

77Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

78Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

79Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

80With rivers like our own that seek for seas

81They never find, the same receding shores

82That never touch with inarticulate pang?

83Why set the pear upon those river-banks

84Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

85Alas, that they should wear our colors there,

86The silken weavings of our afternoons,

87And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

88Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

89Within whose burning bosom we devise

90Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

91Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

92Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

93Their boisterous devotion to the sun,

94Not as a god, but as a god might be,

95Naked among them, like a savage source.

96Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

97Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

98And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

99The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

100The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,

101That choir among themselves long afterward.

102They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

103Of men that perish and of summer morn.

104And whence they came and whither they shall go

105The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

106She hears, upon that water without sound,

107A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine

108Is not the porch of spirits lingering.

109It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

110We live in an old chaos of the sun,

111Or old dependency of day and night,

112Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

113Of that wide water, inescapable.

114Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail

115Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;

116Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

117And, in the isolation of the sky,

118At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

119Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

120Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

  • “Sunday Morning” Introduction

    • Wallace Stevens's "Sunday Morning" offers an extended reflection on nature, religion, and the search for meaning in everyday life. Even as the poem recognizes the human desire for spiritual fulfillment, it rejects the Christian focus on a distant God and a paradisiacal afterlife and instead calls on readers to recognize the "divinity" that exists in their experiences of this earthly world. The poem also argues that the fleeting nature of these experiences is what makes them beautiful, and thus that true beauty could never exist in an everlasting, deathless heaven. Stevens first published "Sunday Morning" in a 1915 issue of Poetry magazine, before later including it in his 1923 collection Harmonium. With its twisty, allusion-laden language and skepticism of religious institutions, the poem is a prime example of literary modernism. At the same time, its use of some formal elements (such as blank verse) and its celebration of the natural world reflect the influence of 18th-century Romanticism.

  • “Sunday Morning” Summary

    • The speaker describes a woman lounging in her nightgown on a sunny Sunday morning, with a light breakfast of coffee and oranges as a green, uncaged cockatoo rustles around on the rug. These things temporarily distract the woman from the solemn memory of Christ's sacrifice. As she dreams in her chair, though, thoughts of the crucifixion start to creep into her mind, much like anxiety grows when strange lights are reflected on water. The woman understands that the oranges' scent and the cockatoo's vividly colored wings are fleeting and will inevitably join the march of the dead as it silently moves across a wide body of water. The speaker compares the day itself to a still and silent sea that the woman, now dreaming, walks across to reach the Holy Land: a place ruled over by religious sacrifice and death.

      The woman wonders why she should have to sacrifice the joys of life on earth on behalf of the dead. She questions the value of God and religion if they only manifest indirectly, in myths and dreams. The simple pleasures of sunshine, eating fruit, seeing a bird's green wings, and other earthly comforts deserve to be cherished just as much as the idea of the afterlife. She must create spiritual meaning within herself, through her ability to fully experience and respond to the world in all its seasons. Rain, snow, blooming spring forests, or rainy autumn roads; all the joy and sorrow of being alive: these are the things by which she will evaluate her life.

      Jove (the chief god of the Greco-Roman pantheon, also known as Zeus) was born in the heavens rather than from a human mother and didn't grow up on earth (in implicit contrast to Jesus). He spent time on earth among mortals, like a king would move among his female deer, until our pure human blood mixed with the divine and people saw their desire for divinity reflected back to them in a star (these lines seem to allude both to Jove's fathering of children with mortal women as well as to Jesus's virgin birth and the Star of Bethlehem signaling his arrival). The poem wonders what will happen if people stop believing in religious myths; will life on earth become the only "heaven" we experience? In that case, the sky wouldn't seem so cold and imposing anymore. It would be part of this mortal world—a place marked by difficulty and pain but also filled with love and beauty—unlike the uncaring sky that, in a religious world, firmly separates people from God.

      The woman feels happy just to watch birds go about their various early morning routines while preparing to fly, but she wonders what will happen to her joy after the birds fly away (i.e., after this fleeting earthly pleasure is over). There are no old prophecies nor illusions about death, no visions of the afterlife (as an island where spirits live, a land far south, on a hilltop, etc.), that have had the power and longevity that nature has (represented here by the green of April, which returns each spring). Those religious images and ideas won't linger in the woman's mind in the same way as the simple memory of birds getting ready to fly or the longing for summer nights.

      Yet even in the midst of the woman's satisfaction, she feels called towards a belief in some everlasting, undying happiness. The speaker points out the futility of this idea by arguing that it is death itself—the awareness that things must eventually end—that makes things beautiful in the first place. Death is the one certainty on the road of life—whether that road is filled with pain and sadness, raucous victory, or soft, tender love. But death is also what makes trees shiver in the sun (i.e., in the winter, without their leaves) and makes young women, who want to sit around leisurely looking at the grass, get back up. Death makes boys pile up fresh fruit on an old, forgotten family heirloom. As the young women eat the fruit, they wander happily among the leaves that death has strewn on the ground.

      The speaker wonders whether or not death and change exist in heaven: can ripe fruits ever fall from a tree's branch in heaven, or does that branch remain forever weighed down with its fruit against the backdrop of an ideal sky, which only looks like the sky on our dying earth? If there's no death in heaven, do rivers, which look like those on earth, never actually reach the seas they search for, and do the seas never get to reach the shores they long for? In such a perfect paradise, there would be no point in setting out pears and plums by a river. It would be a shame for heaven to resemble earth and its humble pleasures, like our leisurely afternoons and music (which would become "insipid," or boring, in an unchanging heaven). Without death, there can be no beauty. It is within death's fiery heart we imagined our own mortal mothers waiting to be born.

      A group of men wildly, feverishly worship the sun on a summer morning. The men don't perceive the sun as a literal deity but rather see it as an entity that possesses godlike qualities. The sun shines down on them, a raw, wild, untamed source of life. The men's divine chant comes from deep within them and flows back up toward the sky, where it came from. Each man's voice joins in the chant, which echoes across a "windy lake" on which the sun is reflected and then through hills and forests, its sound lingering even after the men have stopped chanting. These men understand the divine connection between mortal beings and the ephemeral beauty of a summer morning. The dew on their feet will reveal where they've come from and where they're going.

      While traveling across the silent water toward the Holy Land, the woman hears a voice saying that there are no angels hanging around Jesus's tomb, which is just the earthly grave where a man was buried. Our lives are bound by the ancient movements of the sun and the ancient cycle of day and night. The earth is like an island; we're alone here, without a god supporting us, free to do what we wish, and we can't escape. Deer wander on the earth's mountains, birds fly around making their seemingly random calls, berries thrive in the woods. And, alone up in the sky, groups of pigeons spread their wings and make strange, swirling motions as they descend into the darkness of the night.

  • “Sunday Morning” Themes

    • Theme Religion and Meaning in Modern Life

      Religion and Meaning in Modern Life

      Stevens's poem describes a woman who stays home from church on a Sunday morning. Instead of participating in the traditions of organized religion, she uses this time to savor the world around her. The woman seems to feel somewhat guilty about not attending church, as thoughts of "that old catastrophe" (a reference to the crucifixion) and Christ's tomb lurk in the back of her mind. Still, she senses that she shouldn't sacrifice day-to-day pleasures—like enjoying her coffee and oranges on a sunny morning—just to worship a deity who doesn't really appear on earth, or in her life. The poem ultimately suggests that religion (more specifically, Christianity) isolates people from the joy and, indeed, divinity that exists on earth and within themselves. People can find spiritual fulfillment, the poem argues, by appreciating and being fully present in the ephemeral world that surrounds them.

      Much of this poem is composed of images that demonstrate the sensual pleasures of this mortal life—flocks of birds, fresh fruit, "warm fields," and so on. Compared to this veritable garden of earthly delights, there's really no appeal to the idea of shutting oneself in a dark, musty church for Sunday service. And as the woman lounges with "Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair," her green cockatoo strutting about on the rug, her worldly pleasures "dissipate / The holy hush of ancient sacrifice," casting thoughts of religion from the woman's mind like a dog shaking off icy water.

      These vibrant images of life on earth contrast with the austere vision of Christianity in the poem. The Holy Land, for example, is "Dominion of the blood and sepulchre": a place ruled over by death and sacrifice (with "sepulchre" being a reference to Jesus's tomb). And "Why," the speaker wonders, should this woman "give her bounty to the dead?" That is, why should she have to sacrifice the treasures of existence to Jesus? What use would the dead have for this "bounty"?

      "What is divinity," the speaker continues, "if it can come / Only in silent shadows and in dreams?" In other words, what is the meaning or value of a god who's more or less detached from the material world and only shows himself to human beings indirectly? According to the poem, such "divinity" isn't really meaningful at all.

      Emphasizing this idea, the poem returns to Jesus's tomb (that "sepulchre") in its final stanza, when a mysterious "voice" declares that no "spirits" are hanging around there; it's just "the grave of Jesus, where he lay." That is, this is just a place where a dead body was laid to rest, and there's nothing supernatural about it. The poem isn't necessarily denying the existence of God altogether but rather asserting that such a deity is absent from the realities of the here and now—and thus not really relevant to people's lives.

      In the poem, this is both a frightening and liberating thought. The world might be "chaos" and we might be all alone, but at least there's no "dividing" sky separating us from heaven. Without religion, our lives in the moment matter more because earth is "all of paradise that we shall know."

      As such, the poem ultimately insists that people must find "divinity within" themselves. For the woman in the poem, this means judging her own "soul" by

      Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
      Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
      Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
      Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

      In short, she'll measure the merit of her life by her experiences within this world rather than spend her time preparing for the next. By being fully present in herself, and—by extension—being fully present in her surroundings, she can experience a kind of contentment or joy that she wouldn’t find in church.

    • Theme Humanity and Nature

      Humanity and Nature

      "Sunday Morning" illustrates the beauty, power, and mystery of nature, presenting it as "balm" that soothes and enriches people's lives more than religion ever could.

      For the most part, the poem presents nature as a source of immense joy and comfort. Earth is a "paradise" that ought to be "cherished like the thought of heaven," the poem asserts. That is, people ought to value life on earth as much as they cling to dreams of an ideal afterlife. The poem even argues that the "comforts of the sun," the scent of "pungent fruit," and the sight of "bright, green wings" can be their own source of "divinity” (meaning, delight, spiritual fulfillment, etc.).

      Indeed, the woman at the poem's center "measures" her soul in relation to her experiences of the natural world. Her life will be judged not by a distant god in the sky who appears "Only in silent shadows and in dreams," but rather by "Passions of rain" or “unsubdued / Elations when the forest blooms." She finds fulfillment and meaning in the changing seasons and other seemingly mundane, everyday happenings in her surroundings—no religion required.

      Earthly pleasures are fleeting and ever-changing, of course. The birds the woman so enjoys watching will eventually fly away, for example, prompting her to ask, "where, then, is paradise?" In response to this question, the speaker insists that none of the many religious concepts of heaven/the afterlife throughout human history have "endured as April's green endures, or will endure." That is, none of them have had the potency, staying power, and, indeed, tangible reality that the natural world possesses.

      April's "green" will return every spring, as the earth spins and the seasons change again and again. "We live in an old chaos of the sun," the speaker says in the poem's final stanza. That is, human beings are creatures of the earth, right alongside the "Deer [that] walk upon our mountains" or "the quail [that] / Whistle about us there spontaneous cries," subject to all of nature's rhythms. In finding divinity in nature, then, we are finding the divinity that the speaker insists must live within ourselves.

    • Theme Beauty, Death, and Change

      Beauty, Death, and Change

      One of the most famous lines of "Sunday Morning" declares, "Death is the mother of beauty." By this, the speaker means that it's the promise of death, or the knowledge that something will disappear, that makes it beautiful. There can be no beauty, the poem argues, no "fulfillment to our dreams / And our desires," without change, decay, and, inevitably, an ending.

      Musing on happiness and mortality, the woman on whom the poem focuses says, “I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.” Despite appreciating the beauty of the natural world that surrounds her, she can’t help but long for some sort of everlasting joy like that promised by the Christian afterlife.

      The speaker responds by arguing that everything beautiful in the natural world is actually made precious by its fleeting nature. Death is what "strews the leaves / Of pure obliteration in our paths," making everything from "sorrow" to "triumph" to "love" temporary. At the same time, death is a "mother"—a creative rather than purely destructive figure; death is what allows for the shifting cycle of the seasons, for example, which brings with it new beauties to appreciate.

      The traditional Christian idea of paradise, by contrast, can't truly be paradise because it never changes—unlike "our perishing earth." "Does ripe fruit [in heaven] never fall?" the speaker asks, or do tree branches "Hang always heavy in that perfect sky?" Those heavenly branches never find relief from the weight of their fruit; the fruit is never plucked and enjoyed, and there's never space for new fruit to grow.

      Heaven in traditional renderings might look a lot like earth—they "wear our colors there," the speaker says—but the idea of an unchanging, everlasting paradise seems tedious and even stifling in reality. It would be a place where "rivers […] seek for seas they never find." The sound of "lutes" would group "insipid," or boring.

      There can be no real beauty in "paradise" if there is no death or change, if things can never reach their end. In fact, the speaker suggests that all notions of the afterlife (not just the Christian heaven) are outdated and that none of them "has endured" in the same way nature has. The only permanent thing in the world seems to be change: that is, nature's endless cycle of life and death.

      This revelation, which might initially seem depressing, is actually freeing. Both woman and speaker decide to fully embrace all the beauty around them by living in the moment—appreciating things while they're around—instead of fixating on what's already gone or what's to come.

  • Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis of “Sunday Morning”

    • Lines 1-5

      Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
      Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
      And the green freedom of a cockatoo
      Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
      The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

      The poem opens with a description of a woman relaxing in her "peignoir" (a dressing gown) alongside some "Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair" on a Sunday morning. There's also a green "cockatoo" nearby, apparently freed of its cage and lolling about on the rug. The phrase "green freedom" foreshadows the poem's celebration of the vibrancy and vitality of the natural world, while also hinting at the liberation this woman feels upon not being in church.

      The speaker refers to the creature comforts surrounding the woman as "complacencies," a word that often has a negative connotation and implies a sort of smug contentment combined with unawareness of potential dangers. The implication is that the woman is happy to be indulging in this lazy Sunday morning, but also that guilt nags at her. She perhaps senses that her earthly comforts are making her "complacent" when it comes to her supposed duties as a Christian; if it's a Sunday, she perhaps should be in church, tending to her immortal soul.

      The rich imagery in the first four lines clearly establishes an environment in which the woman has all of her physical, earthly needs met and sets up the tension between the routines and joys of daily life (particularly the beauty and wonder of the natural world) and the traditional doctrine of religious worship (which focuses on things beyond the earth). Indeed, in line 5, the speaker says that these material comforts actively "mingle to dissipate / The holy hush of ancient sacrifice." That is, they scatter and dampen the sense of history and solemnity that, the poem implies, the woman feels she ought to be focusing on. The breathy alliteration of "holy hush" evokes the very "hush" being described and hints at the seriousness and austerity that the woman would experience in church, focusing on Jesus's death and "sacrifice" for humanity.

      Yet instead of busying herself with the sacred—attending church on a Sunday morning—the woman has chosen to entertain herself with life's simple comforts. The enjambment of these opening lines speeds up the poem, evoking the "mingl[ing]" of all these "complacencies" and hinting that the ease and speed with which thoughts of religious duty are swept from the woman's mind.

    • Lines 6-10

      She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
      Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
      As a calm darkens among water-lights.
      The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
      Seem things in some procession of the dead,

    • Lines 11-15

      Winding across wide water, without sound.
      The day is like wide water, without sound,
      Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
      Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
      Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

    • Lines 16-22

      Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
      What is divinity if it can come
      Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
      Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
      In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
      In any balm or beauty of the earth,
      Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

    • Lines 23-30

      Divinity must live within herself:
      Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
      Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
      Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
      Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
      All pleasures and all pains, remembering
      The bough of summer and the winter branch.
      These are the measures destined for her soul.

    • Lines 31-35

      Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
      No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
      Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
      He moved among us, as a muttering king,
      Magnificent, would move among his hinds,

    • Lines 36-38

      Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
      With heaven, brought such requital to desire
      The very hinds discerned it, in a star.

    • Lines 39-45

      Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
      The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
      Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
      The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
      A part of labor and a part of pain,
      And next in glory to enduring love,
      Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

    • Lines 46-50

      She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
      Before they fly, test the reality
      Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
      But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
      Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

    • Lines 51-56

      There is not any haunt of prophecy,
      Nor any old chimera of the grave,
      Neither the golden underground, nor isle
      Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
      Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
      Remote on heaven’s hill,

    • Lines 56-60

      that has endured
      As April’s green endures; or will endure
      Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
      Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
      By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

    • Lines 61-65

      She says, “But in contentment I still feel
      The need of some imperishable bliss.”
      Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
      Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
      And our desires.

    • Lines 65-69

      Although she strews the leaves
      Of sure obliteration on our paths,
      The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
      Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
      Whispered a little out of tenderness,

    • Lines 70-75

      She makes the willow shiver in the sun
      For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
      Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
      She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
      On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
      And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

    • Lines 76-82

      Is there no change of death in paradise?
      Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
      Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
      Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
      With rivers like our own that seek for seas
      They never find, the same receding shores
      That never touch with inarticulate pang?

    • Lines 83-90

      Why set the pear upon those river-banks
      Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
      Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
      The silken weavings of our afternoons,
      And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
      Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
      Within whose burning bosom we devise
      Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

    • Lines 91-95

      Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
      Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
      Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
      Not as a god, but as a god might be,
      Naked among them, like a savage source.

    • Lines 96-101

      Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
      Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
      And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
      The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
      The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
      That choir among themselves long afterward.

    • Lines 102-105

      They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
      Of men that perish and of summer morn.
      And whence they came and whither they shall go
      The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

    • Lines 106-109

      She hears, upon that water without sound,
      A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
      Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
      It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

    • Lines 110-113

      We live in an old chaos of the sun,
      Or old dependency of day and night,
      Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
      Of that wide water, inescapable.

    • Lines 114-120

      Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
      Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
      Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
      And, in the isolation of the sky,
      At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
      Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
      Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

  • “Sunday Morning” Symbols

    • Symbol The Sky

      The Sky

      In religious myth, the sky is traditionally the territory of the gods. The poem acknowledges this idea throughout: the sky is where Jove has his "inhuman birth" "in the clouds," and it's directly contrasted against the "sweet land" of the earthly world. It's the realm of paradise, and its distance from the ground symbolizes the division between the human and heavenly realms.

      The poem also challenges this traditional symbolism. Without religion, the speaker argues, the sky would cease to be a symbol of the separation between humanity and the divine. Instead, the sky would become simply another part of nature—"[a] part of labor and a part of pain" rather than "this dividing and indifferent blue." It would be "friendlier" in the sense that it wouldn't remind people of some divine judgment and would instead become a familiar part of this mortal life.

      The image of the group of men worshipping the sun in the seventh stanza builds on this idea. The speaker says that their "chant of paradise" moves out of "their blood" in order to return to the sky. Human beings—the "blood"—imbue this song with divine meaning as they worship the sun up above. Human beings essentially transfer their own divinity onto the sky, transforming the sky into "paradise" only through their worship.

      The poem returns to the sky in its final moments:

      And, in the isolation of the sky,
      At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
      Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
      Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

      Here, again, the sky is depicted as simply another piece of the natural world. The word "isolation" emphasizes its literal distance from human beings, but this isn't the distance between the earth and paradise. Instead, it suggests that the natural world is far too vast for human beings to dominate, control, or even understand.

    • Symbol The Story of the Maidens

      The Story of the Maidens

      In the fifth stanza of "Sunday Morning," the speaker describes a strange, highly symbolic scene meant to illustrate how death can create beauty:

      • A group of young women ("maidens") would like to sit on the grass. The fact that it's late fall or early winter (evidenced by the fact that a nearby tree has no leaves), however, prompts the women to get back "to their feet."
      • Meanwhile, some boys have decided to "pile new plums and pears / On disregarded plate." (This plate, Stevens has said, refers to a forgotten family heirloom that is given new life as the host to all this fresh fruit.)
      • The boys place this fruit on the place, the poem implies, to tempt the maidens—who then take a bit and "stay impassioned in the littering leaves."

      Those leaves represent the passage of time and the approach of death. (Earlier in the same stanza, death strews "the leaves / Of sure obliteration on our paths.") In eating the fruit, then, the speaker suggests that these maidens are so overcome by the beauty of the here and now that they forget the fleeting nature of their existence. Their haphazard explorations among the leaves symbolize how the pleasures of earth—made beautiful by death, which makes all things temporary—can actually distract from death itself.

      Without death, none of this would have happened: summer and fall would never turn to winter, and the maidens would never feel the need to get up. Fruit would never ripen and fall, meaning it could never be piled on that plate. This is why the speaker asserts that there'd be no point in setting plums and pears on a riverbank in heaven. The maidens would never come; the pleasures the fruit promises would remain always that—promises. True enjoyment, this whole scene illustrates, requires death.

    • Symbol Fruit

      Fruit

      Fruit appears throughout the poem, always symbolizing the fleeting pleasures of earthly life. The woman in the first stanza has "oranges" nearby, whose "pungent" scent helps to distract her from the "holy hush of ancient sacrifice." That is, they help scatter her thoughts of Christ and religion. The fruits are part of the woman's "bounty" (a word that evokes a harvest), and she doesn't think she should have to give them up for "the dead." That is, she shouldn't have to deny herself the joys of her mortal life on behalf of a distant, shadowy God.

      Later, the poem describes some boys piling plums and pears up on a plate. The speaker says that when young women taste the fruit those boys left out, they "stray impassioned in the littering leaves." Those leaves represent death, so the image symbolizes the way that earthly pleasures fill life with meaning and distract people from their own mortality.

      Of course, Fruit itself is also inextricably tied to mortality. It can't exist without the passage of time and the changing seasons, for one thing, and eating fruit results in its destruction. As such, the speaker wonders if "ripe fruit never fall[s]" in heaven. This symbolizes the idea that, in a paradise without death, our earthly pleasures simply could not exist.

  • “Sunday Morning” Poetic Devices & Figurative Language

    • Alliteration

      Throughout "Sunday Morning," alliteration helps to add emphasis to certain images and ideas while also making the poem's blank verse more musical and memorable.

      In line 5, for example, the breathy, whispery alliteration of "holy hush" evokes the very quiet being described. The smooth /w/ sounds in lines 11-12 work similarly, creating a sensation of smooth, silent movement:

      Winding across wide water, without sound.
      The day is like wide water, without sound,

      This entire stanza is filled with broader sibilance as well (which is often, though not always, alliterative) :

      Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
      The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
      She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
      [...]
      Seem things in some procession of the dead,
      Winding across wide water, without sound.
      The day is like wide water, without sound,
      Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
      Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
      Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

      All those /s/ and /sh/ sounds cast a somber hush over the stanza and help to transport readers into the woman's mind. The smooth, hissing sounds subtly evoke the way religious guilt slithers into her consciousness and darkens the bliss of her Sunday morning solace.

      At other moments, alliteration (and the related devices consonance and assonance) can help to link different phrases. In the second stanza, for instance, the alliteration in the phrases "balm or beauty" and "pleasures and all pains" connect the ideas being compared. In the first example, it's because they're similar (earth's soothing "balms" are part of eath's "beauty"); in the second example, it's because they're two sides of the same coin (a full life is marked by both "pleasure" and "pain").

      Finally, alliteration can simply make the poem sound more poetic or emphatic. Take the lilting /l/ sounds of "littering leaves" in line 75, the forceful /b/ sounds of "burning bosom" in line 89, or the threatening hiss of "savage source" in line 95. For another example, note how the repeated /m/ sounds in "[l]arge-mannered motions to his mythy mind" create a sense of drama and grandeur worthy of a god's thoughts. Similarly, the heaving /d/ alliteration of "Downward to darkness" in line 120 adds drama to the poem's final moments.

    • Assonance

    • Repetition

    • Rhetorical Question

    • Imagery

    • Allusion

  • "Sunday Morning" Vocabulary

    Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.

    • Complacencies
    • Peignoir
    • Cockatoo
    • Dissipate
    • Encroachment
    • Catastrophe
    • Palestine
    • Dominion
    • Sepulchre
    • Balm
    • Unsubdued
    • Elations
    • Jove
    • Large-mannered motions
    • Mythy
    • Hinds
    • Commingling
    • Requital
    • Haunt of prophecy
    • Chimera of the grave
    • Golden underground
    • Gat
    • Consummation
    • Imperishable
    • Brassy
    • Wont
    • Relinquished
    • Inarticulate
    • Insipid
    • Lutes
    • Orgy
    • Morn
    • Boisterous
    • Their lord
    • Serafin
    • Manifest
    • Dependency
    • Unsponsored
    • Undulations
    • "Complacencies" are feelings of satisfaction—usually smug or undeserved satisfaction. The woman's earthly pleasures happily distract her from her supposed religious duties.

  • Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme of “Sunday Morning”

    • Form

      "Sunday Morning" contains eight stanzas of 15 lines apiece. While the poem doesn't follow a set form, these stanzas lend it a clear general structure. And though some images and ideas repeat across stanzas, they generally feel quite self-contained. "Sunday Morning" is a complex exploration of life, mortality, religion, beauty, and nature, and these clear stanza divisions allow for some separation between the speaker's many and varied tangents. They also allow the speaker to quickly and easily switch from talking about history and pagan traditions (like the worship of the Roman chief god Jove) to describing the sublime beauty of nature.

    • Meter

      "Sunday Morning" is written in a loose blank verse: unrhymed iambic pentameter (lines of five iambs, poetic feet with a da-DUM rhythm). Take line 1:

      Compla- | cencies | of the | peignoir, | and late

      Depending on the reader's accent, "peignoir" can also be pronounced as a trochee, the opposite of an iamb: "peignoir."

      This meter is not particularly regular. In fact, Stevens strays from the meter in the second line, which also begins with a trochee. (The word "oranges" also must be compressed into two syllables to make the meter "work.") The third line is then even more irregular, with an arguable pyrrhic (two untressed beats) in the first foot followed by a spondee (two stressed beats):

      Coffee | and oran- | ges in | a sun- | ny chair
      And the | green free- | dom of | a cock | atoo

      In sum, there's a sense of a familiar rhythm lurking in the background of the poem but the language still feels somewhat unpredictable and loose. By alternately adhering to and deviating from the traditional rhythms of blank verse, Stevens mirrors the woman's internal indecision: for the majority of the poem, she can't decide whether to conform to Christian rituals and practices or try to discover her own approach to spirituality through the world around her.

    • Rhyme Scheme

      "Sunday Morning" does not stick to any sort of rhyme scheme. Instead, the poem is written in blank verse. Although it features a (somewhat) regular meter and each stanza is the same length, it lacks any other kind of formal pattern. This keeps the poem's language feeling unpredictable and surprising, yet not entirely uncontrolled.

      While "Sunday Morning" doesn't feature a rhyme scheme, it's still a very musical poem. That's thanks to frequent alliteration ("holy hush"), assonance ("green freedom"), and consonance ("dark / Encroachment of that old catastrophe").

  • “Sunday Morning” Speaker

    • There are two main figures in "Sunday Morning": the woman who stays home from church on a Sunday morning and the speaker who describes her musings and contemplations. Sometimes the poem includes the woman's voice directly, as in line 46:

      She says, "I am content when wakened birds,

      In many moments, however, the poem uses something called free indirect speech: the speaker uses the third person even as it sounds like they're narrating the woman's internal thoughts. For example, take line 16:

      Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

      The poem's main speaker remains anonymous: readers never learn who is narrating the poem, nor what their relationship to this woman is. In many ways, the poem's narrator simply sounds like the voice of the poet himself, giving thoughts to his own ideas about religion and spirituality.

      Yet sometimes the speaker also sounds like a voice of the woman's own creation—that is, like a voice in the woman's head that helps to guide her philosophical inquiries. Take lines 61-62:

      She says, "But in contentment I still feel
      The need of some imperishable bliss."

      It's not clear who the woman is saying this to, and, indeed, it sounds a lot like she's just talking to herself. The poem's narrator then responds like a teacher (or, indeed, spiritual leader), prompting her to reevaluate her longing for everlasting happiness. This conversation thus might reflect the poem's declaration that "Divinity must live within herself." Perhaps this poem is an example of the woman finding her own "divinity" by listening to a "voice" that is really a manifestation of her own thoughts and wisdom.

      In any case, it's clear that both of the poem's figures are introspective and contemplative individuals. The main speaker/narrator clearly challenges religious dogma and conventional wisdom; they (along with the woman) question the value of sacrificing earthly pleasures for the past, or in the hopes of some kind of afterlife. Instead, they express a strong desire to find divinity and fulfillment in the tangible beauty of the natural world.

  • “Sunday Morning” Setting

    • "Sunday Morning" takes place, of course, on a Sunday morning! Sunday is a day that, according to the most conventional Christian traditions, should be set aside for worship and prayer. That's why this woman feels a creeping sense of guilt as she lounges in her nightgown: she is supposed to be at church.

      The poem vividly evokes the room in which the woman sits as she plays hooky. Sunlight spills onto a nearby chair, and there are "Coffee and oranges." A green cockatoo, apparently freed from its cage, walks on a rug.

      This is a warm, inviting space—one that the poem juxtaposes against the "holy hush of ancient sacrifice" as well as "silent Palestine, / Dominion of the blood and sepulchre." The world of Christianity, in the poem, is dark and ghoulish, much less pleasant than the earthly world that surrounds the woman. It's also not nearly as solid or clear as the woman's room, and that's part of the poem's point: the speaker argues against sacrificing tangible earthly pleasures for "divinity" that appears "Only in silent shadows and in dreams."

      Beyond the woman's room, however, the poem's setting is largely conceptual. As the speaker reckons with the past and the present, they imagine everything from the change of seasons to the birth of Roman chief god Jove to Jesus Christ's tomb in Palestine to a pagan sun-worshipping ceremony. Though the poem itself is not technically set outdoors, it features extensive natural imagery that evokes a sense of the wild, almost animalistic joy in the tangible pleasures that can be found on earth.

  • Literary and Historical Context of “Sunday Morning”

    • Literary Context

      Wallace Stevens is widely considered one of the foremost poets of the 20th century. "Sunday Morning" debuted in Poetry Magazine in 1915 and would later be collected in Stevens's debut collection Harmonium in 1923.

      "Sunday Morning" was Stevens's breakthrough poem, introducing readers to his signature meandering philosophical style and his circuitous adventures in language. Even so, the poem is stylistically calmer and even formally conventional compared to the work of Stevens's contemporaries. Indeed, though critics typically group Stevens within the modernist tradition, his output is so singular that he often seems at odds with other modernist figures like Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Nevertheless, in many ways, "Sunday Morning" is an essential modernist text: a work dense with allusions, twisty language, and swift narrative shifts. It also embodies the modernist spirit in its skepticism towards institutional dogma (in this case, the doctrine of the Christian church).

      Yet while modernists rejected the sentimentality of 18th and 18th century Romanticism, Stevens's themes often echo the work of British and American Romantic writers like William Wordsworth and Percy Bysshe Shelley. Although Stevens lived almost a century after these writers, he shares many of their concerns, particularly the belief that each individual's imagination shapes their experience of the world. This poem also echoes the Romantics' conception of nature as an immensely powerful, even divine entity.

      Historical Context

      Wallace Stevens famously worked as an insurance executive for most of his career, often composing poems on his walks to and from work. He lived a quiet suburban life in Hartford, Connecticut, though he took frequent trips to Florida, a state he greatly loved. Many critics have linked the contemplative reveries of Stevens's poetry—the way it seems to create a private universe—to his prosperous lifestyle, which distanced him from many of the chaotic social events of his time.

      That said, "Sunday Morning" clearly reflects many of the realities of the early 20th-century world. The poem was published in 1915, during an era of immense technological and social change. The airplane, the automobile, the assembly line, and other innovations of the late 19th and early 20th centuries set the stage for radical upheavals in everyday life. Cities became increasingly important as centers of social and cultural exchange, and the pace of life accelerated dramatically.

      At the same time, all this urbanization spurred an unprecedented sense of disconnection from the natural world. World War I broke out in 1914, and the immense violence of the "Great War" prompted a deep skepticism in many toward the old world order as well as mistrust of traditional institutions—including the church. As a reaction to an increasingly commodified, industrialized world, "Sunday Morning" advocates for deep personal connections with nature and its beauty.

  • More “Sunday Morning” Resources