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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!

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
Nature
Springtime
April
Preparing
Silly
Surprise
Dear
Spring
Annuals
Poor
Annual

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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
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The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
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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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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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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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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
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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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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
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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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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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