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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
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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
Green
Antiques
Blue
Inhuman
Tree
Robust
Grunting
Feelings
Depths
Pines
Branches
Nocturnal
Trees
Shuffling
Depth
Antique
Heavy
Deepen
More quotes by Wallace Stevens
The reader became the book and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
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After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
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The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
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Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
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Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
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There's no such thing as life or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging.
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The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
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Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world
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If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
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Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
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Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
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All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
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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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A violent order is disorder and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.
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I am what is around me.
Wallace Stevens
