A poem like a missal found

In the mud, a missal for that young man,

That scholar hungriest for that book,

The very book, or, less, a page

Or, at the least, a phrase, that phrase,

A hawk of life, that latined phrase:

To know; a missal for brooding-sight.

To meet that hawk’s eye and to flinch

Not at the eye but at the joy of it.

I play. But this is what I think.

(Wallace Stevens, ‘The Man with the Blue Guitar”)