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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
Summer
Became
Conscious
Reader
Night
Book
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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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Life is not free from its forms.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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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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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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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.
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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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.
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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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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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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.
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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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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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