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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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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Snarling
Muddy
Skies
Mud
Rivers
Sky
Spring
Mind
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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I was the world in which I walked.
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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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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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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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All poetry is experimental poetry.
Wallace Stevens
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Wallace Stevens
We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
Wallace Stevens
Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
Wallace Stevens
