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The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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
Cloaked
Past
Mist
Slowly
Snow
Rain
Figures
Walk
Walks
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
Wallace Stevens
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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True villains are extremely photogenic.
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
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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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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
Wallace Stevens
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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The imperfect is our paradise.
Wallace Stevens
Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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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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It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
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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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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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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.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
Wallace Stevens
