Share
×
Inspirational Quotes
Authors
Professions
Topics
Tags
Quote
Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
Wallace Stevens
Share
Change background
T
T
T
Change font
Original
TAGS & TOPICS
Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Hill
Quick
Hills
Bones
Children
Never
Foxes
Picking
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
Wallace Stevens
It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
Wallace Stevens
Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
Wallace Stevens
Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
Wallace Stevens
Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
Wallace Stevens
All poetry is experimental poetry.
Wallace Stevens
I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Wallace Stevens
The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
Wallace Stevens
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Wallace Stevens
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
Wallace Stevens
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
Wallace Stevens
The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination is the will of things. . . .
Wallace Stevens
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Wallace Stevens
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
Wallace Stevens
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens