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

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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
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Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
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It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.
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I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
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The word is the making of the world
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
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Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
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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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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
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The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
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Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
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