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Wallace Stevens

The Poetry Of Wallace Stevens

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  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,

    On sidelong wing, around and round and round.

    A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,

    Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I

    Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,

    In lordly study. Every day, I found

    Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.

    Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,

    And still pursue, the origin and course

    Of love, but until now I never knew

    That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.
  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    No spring can follow past meridian.

    Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss

    To make believe a starry connaissance.
  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    The Poem That Took the Place of a Mountain

    There it was, word for word,

    The poem that took the place of a mountain.

    He breathed its oxygen,

    Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

    It reminded him how he had needed

    A place to go to in his own direction,

    How he had recomposed the pines,

    Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

    For the outlook that would be right,

    Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

    The exact rock where his inexactness

    Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

    Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,

    Recognize his unique and solitary home
  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    The magnificent cause of being,

    The imagination, the one reality

    In this imagined world

    Leaves you

    With him for whom no phantasy moves,

    And you are pierced by a death.
  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    Another Weeping Woman

    Pour the unhappiness out

    From your too bitter heart,

    Which grieving will not sweeten.

    Poison grows in this dark.

    It is in the water of tears

    Its black blooms rise.
  • Nicté Toxquije citiralaпре 4 године
    Is there no change of death in paradise?

    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

    With rivers like our own that seek for seas

    They never find, the same receding shores
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