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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

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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
Romantic
Winter
Rose
Find
Tenements
Great
Suffice
Mind
Destroys
Men
Ice

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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Poetry is the scholar's art.
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behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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I am what is around me.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
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Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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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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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Wallace Stevens
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
Wallace Stevens
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
Wallace Stevens