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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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
Picking
Hill
Quick
Hills
Bones
Children
Never
Foxes
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Make the visible a little hard to see.
Wallace Stevens
It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
Wallace Stevens
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
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The word is the making of the world
Wallace Stevens
You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
Wallace Stevens
Words of the world are the life of the world.
Wallace Stevens
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
Wallace Stevens
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
Wallace Stevens
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Wallace Stevens
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
Wallace Stevens
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
Wallace Stevens
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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.
Wallace Stevens
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Wallace Stevens
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
Wallace Stevens
