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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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
Poem
Remains
Hell
Written
Heaven
Earth
Great
Poems
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
A change of style is a change of meaning.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
Wallace Stevens
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Wallace Stevens
How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
Wallace Stevens
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
Wallace Stevens
Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
Wallace Stevens
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
Wallace Stevens
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
Wallace Stevens
There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
Wallace Stevens
Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
Wallace Stevens
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
Wallace Stevens
It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
Wallace Stevens
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
Wallace Stevens
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Wallace Stevens
Disillusion is the last illusion.
Wallace Stevens
Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Wallace Stevens
The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
Wallace Stevens
