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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.

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
Forms
Stars
Fall
Form
Crouched
Moonlight
Autumn
Covered
Falling

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The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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I am what is around me.
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The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
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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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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
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The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
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It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
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Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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A change of style is a change of meaning.
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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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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
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Thought tends to collect in pools.
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I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
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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.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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