Quote

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
Point
Rain
Living
Silent
States
Sun
Flower
Awe
Paper
Compare
Blood
Dust
Vision
Smell
Seeing
Rose

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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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How red the rose that is the soldier
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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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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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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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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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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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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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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