Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in cold.” — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the moon. It was only a glass because he looked in it. It… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
For the soldier of time, it breathes a summer sleep, In which his wound is good because life was. No part of… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,… — 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
