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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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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Man is an eternal sophomore.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
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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 is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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