It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in… — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
“I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And… — Wallace Stevens 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 Copy Share Image
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too. — Wallace Stevens Copy Share Image
It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do… — 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
