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After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn.
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
Hymns
Paradise
Moon
Need
Needs
Lustre
Hymn
Seducing
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
Wallace Stevens
The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
Wallace Stevens
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Wallace Stevens
The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
Wallace Stevens
Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
Wallace Stevens
The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens
Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
Wallace Stevens
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
Wallace Stevens
The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
Wallace Stevens
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.
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.
Wallace Stevens
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Wallace Stevens
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
Wallace Stevens
The imperfect is our paradise.
Wallace Stevens
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Wallace Stevens
The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
Wallace Stevens
The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
Wallace Stevens
