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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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
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Palestine
Spirits
Grave
Graves
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Jesus
Tomb
Spirit
Porch
Tombs
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
Wallace Stevens
The mind can never be satisfied.
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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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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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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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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
Wallace Stevens
A change of style is a change of meaning.
Wallace Stevens
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
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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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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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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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
Wallace Stevens
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Wallace Stevens
