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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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
Sky
Deep
Hard
Stalks
Stalking
January
Firmly
Ice
Rooted
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
Wallace Stevens
Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
Wallace Stevens
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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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.
Wallace Stevens
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
Wallace Stevens
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
Wallace Stevens
The mind is smaller than the eye.
Wallace Stevens
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
Wallace Stevens
We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
Wallace Stevens
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Wallace Stevens
That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
Wallace Stevens
Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
Wallace Stevens
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
Wallace Stevens
Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Wallace Stevens
