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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.

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
Snakes
Butterfly
Nature
Men
Hogs
Hog
Butterflies
Frogs

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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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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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The word is the making of the world
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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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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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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How red the rose that is the soldier
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In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
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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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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
Wallace Stevens