Wallace Stevens Quotes

The importance of its hat to a form becomes More definite. The sweeping brim of the hat Makes of the form Most Merciful Capitan, If the observer says so....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Pastor Caballero."
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Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Dutch Graves in Bucks County."
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Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges, Into twenty villages, Or one man Crossing a single bridge into a village.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Metaphors of a Magnifico."
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One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Souvenirs and Prophecies: the Young Wallace Stevens, ch. 3, entry for June 20, 1899, ed. Holly Stevens (1977).
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There must be no cessation Of motion, or of the noise of motion, The renewal of noise And manifold continuation....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Place of the Solitaires."
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The flags are natures newly found. Rifles grow sharper on the sight. There is a rumble of autumnal marching, From which no soft sleeve relieves us. Fate is the present desperado.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Dutch Graves in Bucks County."
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What more is to love than I have loved? And if there be nothing more, O bright, O bright, The chick, the chidder-barn and grassy chives And great moon, cricket-impresario, And, hoy, the impopulous purple-plated past, Hoy, hoy, the blue bulls kneeling down to rest.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Montrachet-le-Jardin."
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A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Entry for July 26, 1899. Souvenirs and Prophecies: the Young Wallace Stevens, ch. 3, ed. Holly Stevens (1977).
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It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure has become a minor house. No turban walks across the lessened floors. The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Plain Sense of Things."
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Angry men and furious machines Swarm from the little blue of the horizon To the great blue of the middle height.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Dutch Graves in Bucks County."
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