As with so many pieces in the book, the mood here is meditative, hypnotic and dark, faintly apocalyptic, the tiniest detail looming up, immense, the feel somehow reminiscent of Wallace Stevens in his last poems written in old age, which Randall Jarrell said were "from the other side of existence, the poems of someone who sees things in steady
accustomedness, as we do not, and who sees their
accustomedness, and them, as about to perish." These "poems," he went on, "magnanimous, compassionate, but calmly exact, grandly plain."