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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.

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
Mother
Beautiful
Unmoved
Perishable
Artificial
Flowers
Flower
Beauty
Death

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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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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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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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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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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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