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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

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Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
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The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
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Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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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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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
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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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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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Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud.
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Poetry is a means of redemption.
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Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
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This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
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God and the imagination are one.
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