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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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
Winter
Wind
Reason
Live
World
Hardened
Frost
Throughout
Determination
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
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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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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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The mind can never be satisfied.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
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The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
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Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
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The imperfect is our paradise.
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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
Wallace Stevens
