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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

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
Blackbirds
River
Flying
Rivers
Moving
Must
Blackbird

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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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Money is a kind of poetry.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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I am what is around me.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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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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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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