|Born||(1879-10-02)October 2, 1879
Reading, Pennsylvania, U.S.
|Died||August 2, 1955(1955-08-02) (aged 75)
Hartford, Connecticut, U.S.
|Occupation||Poet, Insurance Executive|
“The Idea of Order at Key West”
“The Man With the Blue Guitar”
The Auroras of Autumn
“Of Modern Poetry”
|Notable awards||Robert Frost Medal (1951)|
|Spouse||Elsie Viola Kachel (m. 1909-1955)|
|Children||Holly Stevens (born 1924)|
To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one’s thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.
The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
Intolerance respecting other people’s religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people’s art.
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
We say God and the imagination are one… How high that highest candle lights the dark.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one’s meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.
Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
One cannot spend one’s time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
The genuine artist is never ‘true to life.’ He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.