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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.

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
Like
Noon
Thrones
Evening
King
Kings
Sun
Promenade
Sitting
Pageant
Morning
Throne

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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
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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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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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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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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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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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The word is the making of the world
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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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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