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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

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
Silk
Worms
Dresses
Poet
Poetry
Makes

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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
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I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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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 tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.
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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
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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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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
Wallace Stevens