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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
Desire
Bereavement
Death
Hence
Mother
Fulfillment
Dream
Desires
Come
Dreams
Shall
Alone
Beauty

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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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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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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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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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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Wallace Stevens
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens