Quote

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

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The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
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Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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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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I was the world in which I walked.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
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Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
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God and the imagination are one.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
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I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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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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Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
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