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the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
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
Literate
Cries
Sky
Despair
Cry
Windy
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Wallace Stevens
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
Wallace Stevens
Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
Wallace Stevens
On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
Wallace Stevens
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
Wallace Stevens
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
Wallace Stevens
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Wallace Stevens
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
Wallace Stevens
The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
Wallace Stevens
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Wallace Stevens
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
Wallace Stevens
It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
Wallace Stevens
An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
Wallace Stevens
To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Wallace Stevens
Poetry is the scholar's art.
Wallace Stevens
Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
Wallace Stevens
Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
Wallace Stevens
Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
Wallace Stevens
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
Wallace Stevens
