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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

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
Death
Earthly
Mother
Mystical
Mothers
Burning
Whose
Beauty
Devise
Waiting
Bosom
Within
Bosoms

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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
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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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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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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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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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