I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
I thought how utterly we have forsaken the Earth, in the sense of excluding it from our thoughts. There are but few… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour,… — 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 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 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
