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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

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
Fingers
Keys
Sound
Spirit
Music
Self
Make
Sounds

More quotes by Wallace Stevens

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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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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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Life is not free from its forms.
Wallace Stevens
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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
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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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Sentimentality is a failure of feeling.
Wallace Stevens
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Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
Wallace Stevens
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The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Wallace Stevens
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Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.
Wallace Stevens
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The imagination is man's power over nature.
Wallace Stevens
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Disillusion is the last illusion.
Wallace Stevens
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
Wallace Stevens
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The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
Wallace Stevens
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Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
Wallace Stevens
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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
Wallace Stevens
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
Wallace Stevens
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Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Wallace Stevens
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Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
Wallace Stevens