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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?

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
Real
Kissed
Realism
Parent
Spirit
Else
Jingling
Reality
Cupped
Come
Bride
Self
Brides

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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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One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
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A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
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It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
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The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
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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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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
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I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
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Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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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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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
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It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
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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
Wallace Stevens