The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

— Wallace Stevens

.
.

In his final vision, the dying poet beholds a phoenixlike bird in a palm tree precariously balanced at an edge and listens to its uninterpretable song. Yet he sees the bird fashioned (fangled) out of fire and intimates the final serenity of a great soul who has made friends with the necessity of dying.

— Harold Bloom