Wallace Stevens Quotes

The point of vision and desire are the same.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven."
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The bud of the apple is desire, the down-falling gold, The catbird's gobble in the morning half-awake These are real only if I make them so. Whistle For me, grow green for me and, as you whistle and grow green, Intangible arrows quiver and stick in the skin And I taste at the root of the tongue the unreal of what is real.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Holiday in Reality."
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In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Of the Surface of Things."
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The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Comedian as the Letter C.."
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The one invulnerable man among Crude captains, the naked majesty, if you like, Of bird-nest arches and of rain-stained-vaults.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "To an Old Philosopher in Rome."
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A scholar, in his Segmenta, left a note, As follows, "The Ruler of Reality, If more unreal than New Haven, is not A real ruler, but rules what is unreal."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven."
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In the sea, Biscayne, there prinks The young emerald, evening star, Good light for drunkards, poets, widows, And ladies soon to be married.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Homunculus et la Belle étoile."
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If the stars that move together as one, disband, Flying like insects of fire in a cavern of night, Pipperoo, pippera, pipperum . . . The rest is rot.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "On an Old Horn."
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That's the down-town frieze, Principally the church steeple, A black line beside a white line; And the stack of the electric plant, A black line drawn on flat air.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Common Life."
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no thread Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown Its venom of renown, and on your head No crown is simpler than the simple hair.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "To the One of Fictive Music."
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