Quotes by Wallace Stevens
The wound kills that does not bleed. It has no nurse nor kin to know Nor kin to care.
From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves...
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping,...
She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss."...
If there is a man white as marble Sits in a wood, in the greenest part,...
Two forms move among the dead, high sleep Who by his highness quiets them, high peace...
The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
Spread outward. Crack the round dome. Break through. Have liberty not as the air within a grave...
People fall out of windows, trees tumble down, Summer is changed to winter, the young grow old...
Life contracts and death is expected, As in a season of autumn. The soldier falls.
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
The A B C of being, The ruddy temper, the hammer...
These are the small townsmen of death, A man and a woman, like two leaves...
Rosenbloom is dead. The tread of the carriers does not halt...
"Things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar."
This death was his belief though death is a stone. This man loved earth, not heaven, enough to die.
Politic man ordained Imagination as the fateful sin. Grandmother and her basketful of pears Must be the crux for our compendia.
The truth in a calm world, In which there is no other meaning, itself...
I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing; but the average human mind and spirit ar...
Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
Abba, dark death is the breaking of a glass. The dazzled flakes and splinters disappear. The seal is as relaxed as dirt, perdu.
It may be that the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life...
Reality is a cliche from which we escape by metaphor.
The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
