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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
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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
Night
Hears
Without
Sits
Heart
Runs
Mind
Pass
Time
Road
Horse
Listening
Rider
Running
Riders
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The mind is smaller than the eye.
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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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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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How red the rose that is the soldier
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
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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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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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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
Wallace Stevens
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
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Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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Imagination is the power of the mind over the possibilities of things.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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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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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
Wallace Stevens