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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

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
Vitality
Cease
Loses
Imagination
Real
Adhere
Ceases

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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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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.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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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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I was the world in which I walked.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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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 mind can never be satisfied.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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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.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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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.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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