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
Flying
Cry
Bird
Sight
Green
Light
Even
Blackbirds
Would
Sharply

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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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I am what is around me.
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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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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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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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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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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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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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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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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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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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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