Quote

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

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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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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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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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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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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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