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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

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
Like
Summer
Became
Conscious
Reader
Night
Book

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The mind can never be satisfied.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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The word is the making of the world
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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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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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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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.
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Life is not free from its forms.
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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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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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