Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And… — 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 Copy Share Image
The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy,… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one… — 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
