Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevenswas an American Modernist poet. He was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, educated at Harvard and then New York Law School, and he spent most of his life working as an executive for an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his Collected Poems in 1955...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth2 October 1879
CountryUnited States of America
winter snow cedars
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
photography evil cameras
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
keys west becoming
Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
stars moon light
Trees Trees, proud standing people stretching fingertips to the sky, reaching, praying glorious attention, breathing light. strength shelter timeless confidence bending and firm comforting rooted chorus line dancing with the moon, the wind, the clouds framing bursts of stars tender rugged celebration absorbing and releasing life each holy branch holding the power of the Universe. There.
people tree cherokee
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."
people life-is trouble
Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
angel reality doors
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
reality corruption realism
Realism is a corruption of reality.
style
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
real
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
office six nine
I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
death mother dream
She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?
children snow people
People should like poetry the way a child likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it.
love-is desire next
Next to love is the desire for love.