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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.

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
Child
Children
Poets
Way
Snow
Would
Likes
Like
Wrote
People
Poet
Poetry
Ought

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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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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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
Wallace Stevens
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It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Wallace Stevens
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
Wallace Stevens