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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.

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
Desolate
Except
Within
Would
World

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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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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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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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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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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
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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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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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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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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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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
Wallace Stevens