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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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We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
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Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
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The muddy rivers of spring Are snarling Under the muddy skies. The mind is muddy.
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To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
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We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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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.
Wallace Stevens