Wallace Stevens Quotes

Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare, Except for our own houses, huddled low Beneath the arches and their spangled air, Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire, Where the voice that is in us makes a true response....
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Evening Without Angels."
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It is as if being was to be observed, As if, among the possible purposes Of what one sees, the purpose that comes first, The surface, is the purpose to be seen, The property of the moon, what it evokes.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Note on Moonlight."
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And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Sunday Morning (l. 40-45). . . Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions.
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the folk-lore Of each of the senses; call it, again and again, The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. The River of Rivers in Connecticut (l. 16-18). . . Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions.
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Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Adagia," Opus Posthumous (1959).
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Examination of the Hero in a Time of War."
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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Notes toward a Supreme Fiction."
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Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. Sunday Morning (l. 88-90). . . Collected Poems [Stevie Smith]. James MacGibbon, ed. (1976) New Directions.
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The starting point of the human and the end, That in which space itself is contained, the gate To the enclosure, day, the things illumined By day, night and that which night illumines, Night and its midnight-minting fragrances, Night's hymn of the rock, as in a vivid sleep.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Rock."
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To-morrow when the sun, For all your images, Comes up as the sun, bull fire, Your images will have left No shadow of themselves.
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "Add This to Rhetoric."
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