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The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.

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
Liberty
Imagination
Lying
Eager
Mind
Abstraction
Extreme
Extremes
Achievement
Lies

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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
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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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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 word is the making of the world
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New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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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 wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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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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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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God and the imagination are one.
Wallace Stevens