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"The point of vision and desire are the same."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven." |
"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." |
"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." |
"The sea
Severs not only lands but also selves."
Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), U.S. poet. "The Comedian as the Letter C.." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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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Wallace Stevens
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