Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in… — 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
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself,… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“Diaries are very futile. I must be all dream or all deed. It is quite impossible for me to express any of… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By… — 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 Image
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
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 Image
“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 Image
“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 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 Copy Share Image
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 Image
