Wallace Stevens Quotes on Love
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A few things for themselves, Florida, venereal soil, Disclose to the lover.
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Donna, donna, dark, Stooping in indigo gown And cloudy constellations, Conceal yourself or disclose Fewest things to the lover - A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit, A pungent bloom against your shade.
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If to serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
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Place honey on the altars and die, You lovers that are bitter at heart.
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As a man and woman meet and love forthwith. Perhaps there are moments of awakening, Extreme, fortuitous, personal, in which We more than awaken, sit on the edge of sleep, As on an elevation, and behold The academies like structures in a mist.
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The romantic intoning, the declaimed clairvoyance Are parts of apotheosis, appropriate And of its nature, the idiom thereof.
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Should there be a question of returning or Of death in memory's dream? Is spring a sleep? This warmth is for lovers at last accomplishing Their love, this beginning, not resuming, this Booming and booming of the new-come bee.
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Tonight the lilacs magnify The easy passion, the ever-ready love Of the lover that lies within us and we breathe An odor evoking nothing, absolute. We encounter in the dead middle of the night The purple odor, the abundant bloom.
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Clothe me entire in the final filament, So that I tremble with such love so known And myself am precious for your perfecting.
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Of these beginnings, gay and green, propose The suitable amours. Time will write them down.
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This was their ceremonial hymn: Anon We loved but would no marriage make. Anon The one refused the other one to take, Foreswore the sipping of the marriage wine.
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They married well because the marriage-place Was what they loved. It was neither heaven nor hell. They were love's characters come face to face.
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They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne. We shall return at twilight from the lecture Pleased that the irrational is rational, Until flicked by feeling, in a gildered street, I call you by name, my green, my fluent mundo.
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Home from Guatemala, back at the Waldorf. This arrival in the wild country of the soul, All approaches gone, being completely there, Where the wild poem is a substitute For the woman one loves or ought to love, One wild rhapsody a fake for another. You touch the hotel the way you touch moonlight Or sunlight and you hum and the orchestra Hums and you say 'The world in a verse, A generation sealed, men remoter than mountains, Women invisible in music and motion and color,' After that alien, point-blank, green and actual Guatemala.