Quote

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

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
Cry
Bird
Sight
Green
Light
Even
Blackbirds
Would
Sharply
Flying

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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
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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.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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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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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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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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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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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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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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Life is not free from its forms.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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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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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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