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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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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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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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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
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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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New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
Wallace Stevens
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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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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And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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Realism is a corruption of reality.
Wallace Stevens
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
Wallace Stevens
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
Wallace Stevens