Quote

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

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
Hard
Leaves
Stalking
Solitude
January
Winter
Firmly
Sky
Hollow
Gawky
Ground
Hops
Stalks
Deep
Ice
Scraping
Single
Emptiness
Syllable
Sound
Rooted
Syllables

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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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One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
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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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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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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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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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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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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.
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Money is a kind of poetry.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
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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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Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
Wallace Stevens