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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

Wallace Stevens

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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Alone
Beauty
Desire
Bereavement
Death
Hence
Mother
Fulfillment
Dream
Desires
Come
Dreams
Shall

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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
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