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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.

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
Blood
Dust
Vision
Smell
Seeing
Rose
Point
Rain
Living
Silent
States
Sun
Flower
Awe
Paper
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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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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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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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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