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The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
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
Bassoon
Terrible
Tempestuous
Came
Thundering
Music
Bluntly
Revenge
Heavy
Cry
Clarion
Wind
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
Wallace Stevens
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
Wallace Stevens
Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
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You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Wallace Stevens
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
Wallace Stevens
It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
Wallace Stevens
Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
Wallace Stevens
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
Wallace Stevens
This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
It is the belief and not the god that counts.
Wallace Stevens
One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
Wallace Stevens
The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover. The observation of the unconscious, so far as it can be observed, should reveal things of which we have previously been unconscious, not the familiar things of which we have been conscious plus imagination.
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Words of the world are the life of the world.
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
Wallace Stevens
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.
Wallace Stevens
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
Wallace Stevens