It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn?… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Poet, patting more nonsense foamed From the sea, conceive for thecourts Of these academies, the diviner health Disclosed in common forms. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
“We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
“Lunar Paraphrase" The moon is the mother of pathos and pity. When, at the wearier end of November, Her old light moves along the… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
“The stars are putting on their glittering belts, They throw around their shoulders cloaks that flash Like a great shadow's last embellishment” — wallace stevens Copy Share
Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share
