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
Time
Road
Horse
Listening
Rider
Running
Riders
Night
Hears
Without
Sits
Heart
Runs
Mind
Pass

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It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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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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To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
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Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
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