Aún no habías nacido cuando los árboles eran cristal
ni has nacido ahora, en esta vigilia dentro de un sueño.
He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.
Wallace StevensLunar Paraphrase"
The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.
When, at the wearier end of November,
Her old light moves along the branches,
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;
When over the houses, a golden illusion
Brings back an earlier season of quiet
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness—
The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.
Bantams in Pine-Woods"
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
Damned universal cock, as if the sun
Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.
Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.
Your world is you. I am my world.
You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,
Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
Poetry Is a Destructive Force"
That's what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.
It is a thing to have,
A lion, an ox in his breast,
To feel it breathing there.
Corazon, stout dog,
Young ox, bow-legged bear,
He tastes its blood, not spit.
He is like a man
In the body of a violent beast.
Its muscles are his own . . .
The lion sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is on its paws.
It can kill a man.
Then the sea and heaven rolled as one and from the two came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.
Wallace StevensSentimentality is a failure of feeling. p.903
Wallace StevensEverything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
Wallace StevensThe subject matter. . . is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes; and so reality is not that external scene but the life that is lived in it. Reality is things as they are.
Wallace StevensIn ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Wallace StevensStichwörter: sounds demarcations ghostlier keener
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