Quote

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.

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
Like
Dead
Cripples
Tree
Autumn
Half
Repeats
Words
Moves
Moving
Trees
Fall
Leaves
Everything
Among
Without
Wind
Cripple

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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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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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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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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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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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