| |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
"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." |
| |
Wallace Stevens
Free
Poetry E-Book: