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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.

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
Cold
Coming
Lions
Voice
Voices
Element
Brings
Winter
Air
Elements

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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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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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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
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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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It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
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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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I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
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They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
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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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