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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .

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
Called
Cherokee
People
Tribute
Mystical
Magical
Trees
Standing
Magic
Tree

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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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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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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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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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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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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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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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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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