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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.

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
Men
Tinsel
February
August
Besides
Reason
Things

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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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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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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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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
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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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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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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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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
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