My Apologies, Mr. Stevens

On reading "Of Mere Being" by Wallace Stevens

Meaning is a herald without feathers 
or trumpets: there is no tree at the end 
of the mind, whether a palm in its dryness 
or an oak whose thick trunk holds the 
grindstone that shapes the world.

And a bird, if one appears at all, is carried 
on wings of supposition, a figment of our 
own creation, of simply knowing that such 
a being could actually exist.

How can the sky hold so much sorrow, 
the blue has splintered, feathered shadows
pierce the light.

We long for what we cannot have. 
What should we desire if the opposite were 
true?

Can we be fed with certainty, grow fat 
dining on the real until we collapse into
the fantasy of it all?

Will the tree care? 
Will the bird sing?
Can bronze doors rust?