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

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I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.
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The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
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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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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
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Realism is a corruption of reality.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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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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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
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The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
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