II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
This is a central theme of Stevens' post-Nietzschean radical humanism; see also  “Sunday Morning”  where the poet insists: 
 Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. 
 For Stevens the “perfect” (embodied for him by sculptures) is that which is static, staid, and dead. Without the pressures of change (“death”), life is as frozen and cold as the bowl described in the poem.
The Poems of Our Climate