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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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
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The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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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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To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game the ideal is to suggest.
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I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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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.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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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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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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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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