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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

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
Night
Thought
Like
Summertime
Perfection
Summer

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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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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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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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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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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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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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The word is the making of the world
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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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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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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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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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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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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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