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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.

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
Things
Rhapsody
Gardening
Spirituality
None
Religion
Spirit
Must

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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.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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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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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.
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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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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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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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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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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 sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
Wallace Stevens