Wallace Stevens Quotes

It was like passing a boundary to dive Into the sun-filled water, brightly leafed And limbed and lighted out from bank to bank. That's how the stars shine during the day.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "A Lot of People Bathing in a Stream."
(3) (2)
What One believes is what matters. Ecstatic identities Between one's self and the weather and the things Of the weather are the belief in one's element, The casual reunions, the long-pondered Surrenders, the repeated sayings that There is nothing more and that it is enough....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Extracts from Addresses to the Academy of Fine Ideas."
(1) (1)
After a lustre of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Notes toward a Supreme Fiction."
(5) (0)
In what camera do you taste Poison, in what darkness set Glittering scales and point The tipping tongue?
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Bagatelles the Madrigals."
(1) (1)
After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard."
(5) (1)
We enjoy the ithy oonts and long-haired Plomets, as the Herr Gott Enjoys his comets.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Analysis of a Theme."
(1) (1)
My beards, attend To the laughter of evil: the fierce ricanery With the ferocious chu-chot-chu between, the sobs For breath to laugh the louder, the deeper gasps Uplifting the completest rhetoric Of sneers....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Extracts from Addresses to the Academy of Fine Ideas."
(1) (2)
We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Notes toward a Supreme Fiction."
(2) (1)
So summer comes in the end to these few stains And the rust and rot of the door through which she went. The house is empty. But here is where she sat To comb her dewy hair, a touchless light, Perplexed by its darker iridescences.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Beginning."
(2) (2)
The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Wind Shifts."
(7) (1)