The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“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 Astronomy Copy Share Image
To-morrow when the sun, For all your images, Comes up as the sun, bull fire, Your images will have left No shadow… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, candefend Against itself. At its mercy, we… — Wallace Stevens Compassion Copy Share Image
“Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.” — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And… — Wallace Stevens Poem Copy Share Image
“The partaker partakes of that which changes him. The child that touches takes character from the thing, the body, it touches.” — Wallace Stevens Child Copy Share Image
“It is a world of words to the end of it, / In which nothing solid is its solid self.” — Wallace Stevens Language Copy Share Image
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time. — Wallace Stevens Communication 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 Bird Copy Share Image
What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life? — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words. — Wallace Stevens Dolls Copy Share Image
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind. — Wallace Stevens Discord Copy Share Image
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture. — Wallace Stevens Furniture Copy Share Image
My titillations have no foot-notes And their memorials are the phrases Of idiosyncratic music. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.” — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written. — Wallace Stevens Earth Copy Share Image
“do not know which to prefer, / The beauty of inflections / Or the beauty of innuendos, / The blackbird whistling / Or just after.” — Wallace Stevens Beauty Copy Share Image
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being. — Wallace Stevens Books Copy Share Image
Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art. — Wallace Stevens Art Copy Share Image
Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car. — Wallace Stevens Approach Copy Share Image
A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun. — Wallace Stevens Mind Copy Share Image
People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it. — Wallace Stevens Children Copy Share Image
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states… — Wallace Stevens Awe Copy Share Image
Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost. — Wallace Stevens Determination Copy Share Image
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. — Wallace Stevens Bird Copy Share Image
Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or… — Wallace Stevens Brides Copy Share Image
In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction.… — Wallace Stevens Belief Copy Share Image
The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill. — Wallace Stevens Blue Copy Share Image
And the whole of the soul, Swenson, As every man in Sweden will concede, Still hankers after lions, or, toshift, Still hankers… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths. — Wallace Stevens Antiques Copy Share Image
The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin. — Wallace Stevens Flowering Copy Share Image
The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence. — Wallace Stevens Existence Copy Share Image
