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

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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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You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
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Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
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To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
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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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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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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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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
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One must read poetry with one's nerves.
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Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave Or down a well. Breathe freedom, oh, my native, In the space of horizons that neither love nor hate.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
Wallace Stevens
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
Wallace Stevens
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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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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On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
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That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.
Wallace Stevens