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

Wallace Stevens

The Motive for Metaphor You like it under the trees in autumn, Because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves And repeats words without meaning. In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single… Continue reading Wallace Stevens

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