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

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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
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The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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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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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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