Wallace Stevens Quotes

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds /
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

That's what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing.<p>It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast, To feel it breathing there.<p>Corazon, stout dog, Young ox, bow-legged bear, He tastes its blood, not spit.<p>He is like a man In the body of a violent beast. Its muscles are his own...<p>The lion sleeps in the sun. Its nose is on its paws. It can kill a man.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

Without a name and nothing to be desired, If only imagined but imagined well.

The soul, he said, is composed Of the external world.

At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird's cry, at daylight or before, In the early March wind.

The first idea was not our own. Adam In Eden was the father of Descartes And eve made air the mirror of herself, Of her sons and of her daughters.

Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon ...

The President ordains the bee to be Immortal. The President ordains.

Light the first light of evening, as in a room In which we rest and, for small reason, think The world imagined is the ultimate good.

The swarm of thoughts, the swarm of dreams Of inaccessible Utopia. A mountainous music always seemed To be falling and to be passing away.

There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain, So many clappers going without bells, That these bethous compose a heavenly gong. <p> One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, The phrases of a single phrase, ke-ke, A single text, granite monotony

Red-in-red repetitions never going Away,a little rusty, a little rouged, A little roughened and ruder, a crown<p>The eye could not escape, a red renown Blowing itself upon the tedious ear.

Two things of opposite natures seem to depend
On on another, as Logos depends
On Eros, day on night, the imagined

On the real. This is the origin of change.
Winter and spring, cold copulars, embrace
And forth the particulars of rapture come.

Music falls on the silence like a sense
A passion that we feel, not understand.
Morning and afternoon are clasped together

And North and South are an intrinsic couple
And sun and rain a plural, like two lovers
That walk away together as one in the greenest body.

Life’s nonsense pierces us with strange relation.