I love Stevens--so much of him I carry around always rattling around in my head. Though I concede "Comedian as the Letter C" is not among my favorite.
To pick a favorite is too hard for me: from
Harmonium to "Of Mere Being," there is little I don't love. So I'm not picking a favorite here, but just sharing one I love, with but scant commentary, that is not one of the most frequently cited poems:
Anglais Mort à Florence
A little less returned for him each spring.
Music began to fail him. Brahms, although
His dark familiar, often walked apart.
His spirit grew uncertain of delight,
Certain of its uncertainty, in which
That dark companion left him unconsoled
For a self returning mostly memory.
Only last year he said that the naked moon
Was not the moon he used to see, to feel
(In the pale coherences of moon and mood
When he was young), naked and alien,
More leanly shining from a lankier sky.
Its ruddy pallor had grown cadaverous.
He used his reason, exercised his will,
Turning in time to Brahms as alternate
In speech. He was that music and himself.
They were particles of order, a single majesty:
But he remembered the time when he stood alone.
He stood at last by God’s help and the police;
But he remembered the time when he stood alone.
He yielded himself to that single majesty;
But he remembered the time when he stood alone,
When to be and delight to be seemed to be one,
Before the colors deepened and grew small.
Coming after his fallow period, this poem has such power in evoking a naked fear of aging and loss of both potency and poetic power. It feels fresh and personal while not obviously being about him--a quality I think more contemporary poets might take a lesson from.