S.M. Stevens Quotes
We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
It was autumn and falling stars Covered the shrivelled forms Crouched in the moonlight.
We recognize the reality of the marketplace. We're fighting to win, and that's what we're going to do. This is not the time to hide.
At Jerusalem, I went to the mosque and sat down. A man asked me what I wanted. I told him I was a Muslim. Now I realize I can get direct contact with God, unlike Christianity or any other religion.
Coming back to theatre is something I'm keen to do for the rest of my life. It recharges my batteries, so to speak.
When the commission finds that a pig has entered the parlor, the exercise of its regulatory power does not depend on proof the pig is obscene.
The graphic emphasis placed on those first lines is rather hard to square with the proposition that the monument expresses no particular religious preference.
There are so many great artists and most of them are women, but that's good - the more the merrier!
Take the wonder drug that cures all your ills, take Jeremiah Peabody's polyunsaturated, quick dissolving, fast acting, pleasant tasting, green and purple pills.
The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.
We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.