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Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens

Valley Candle

My candle burned alone in an immense valley.
Beams of the huge night converged upon it,
Until the wind blew.
The beams of the huge night
Converged upon its image,
Until the wind blew.

#Americans Modern

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Other works by Wallace Stevens...
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. I was of three minds, Like a tree
Large Red Man Reading

There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
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
The Man on the Dump

Day creeps down. The moon is cree… The sun is a corbeil of flowers th… Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…Th… Of images. Days pass like papers… The bouquets come here in the pape…
Domination of Black

At night, by the fire, The colors of the bushes And of the fallen leaves, Repeating themselves, Turned in the room,
Sunday Morning

Complacencies of the peignoir, and… Coffee and oranges in a sunny chai… And the green freedom of a cockato… Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice…
Tattoo

The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
Man Carrying Thing

The poem must resist the intellige… Almost successfully. Illustration… A brune figure in winter evening r… Identity. The thing he carries re… The most necessitous sense. Accep…
Of Modern Poetry

The poem of the mind in the act of… What will suffice. It has not alw… To find: the scene was set; it rep… Was in the script. Then the theatre was changed
In the Carolinas

The lilacs wither in the Carolina… Already the butterflies flutter ab… Already the new-born children inte… In the voices of mothers. Timeless mothers,
Statistics

Napoleon shifted Restless in the old sarcophagus And murmured to a watchguard: “Who goes there?” “Twenty-one million men,
Peter Quince at the Clavier

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sound… On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel,
Continual Conversation With a Silent Man

The old brown hen and the old blue… Between the two we live and die— The broken cartwheel on the hill. As if, in the presence of the sea, We dried our nets and mended sail
 1
Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill. The wilderness rose up to it,
The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm

The house was quiet and the world… The reader became the book; and su… Was like the conscious being of th… The house was quiet and the world… The words were spoken as if there…



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