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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
Writer
Spirits
Grave
Graves
Lays
Lingering
Jesus
Tomb
Spirit
Porch
Tombs
Palestine

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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 only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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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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The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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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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An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
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Money is a kind of poetry.
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