Wallace Stevens Quotes

A dirty house in a gutted world, A tatter of shadows peaked to white, Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. A Postcard from the Volcano (l. 22-24). . . Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions.
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If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. (First published 1949). "Imagination as Value," The Necessary Angel (1951).
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Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Opus Posthumous, "Adagia," (1959).
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Lacustrine man had never been assailed By such long-rolling opulent cataracts, Unless Racine or Bossuet held the like.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Doctor of Geneva."
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Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Two or Three Ideas," Opus Posthumous (1951, repr. 1959).
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with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left what we felt At what we saw.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. A Postcard from the Volcano (l. 7-10). . . Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions.
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But the beggar gazes on calamity And thereafter he belongs to it, to bread Hard found, and water tasting of misery.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "In a Bad Time."
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One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Opus Posthumous, "Adagia," (1959).
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The whole appearance is a toy. For this, The dove in the belly builds his nest and coos, Selah, tempestuous bird. How is it that The rivers shine and hold their mirrors up, Like excellence collecting excellence?
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Dove in the Belly."
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Lantern without a bearer, you drift, You, too, are drifting, in spite of your course; Unless in the darkness, brightly-crowned, You are the will, if there is a will, Or the portent of a will that was, One of the portents of the will that was.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Variations on a Summer Day."
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