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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.

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
Beneath
Lays
Acceptance
Broken
Passion
Every
Never

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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.
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The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks And far beyond the discords of the wind.
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How red the rose that is the soldier
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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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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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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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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
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All poetry is experimental poetry.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
Wallace Stevens