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All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.

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
Ideas
Come
Umbrellas
World
Umbrella
Trees
Equal
Tree
Natural
Nature

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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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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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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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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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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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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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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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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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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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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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