American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Modernism · Poetry

Wallace Stevens

Peter Quince at the Clavier                                           I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the selfsame sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It… Continue reading Wallace Stevens

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E. E. Cummings

the sky a silver dissonance by the correct fingers of April resolved              into a clutter of trite jewels — E. E. Cummings, from “Impressions: the sky a sliver,” Tulips and Chimneys. (Liveright; 2nd Revised ed. Edition, August 17, 1996)  Originally published 1923.

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Wallace Stevens

                           It was her voice that made    The sky acutest at its vanishing.    She measured to the hour its solitude.    She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,    Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she… Continue reading Wallace Stevens

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