A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
A poem is a meteor. — Wallace Stevens
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A poem is a meteor.

— Wallace Stevens
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poem poetry poets wallace stevens

More “Poem” Quotes

In your hands I am no longer a pile of bones left behind to a world that moved on. — Taylor Patton
Poetry arises from the desire to get beyond the finite and the historical—the human world of violence and difference—and — Ben Lerner, The Hatred of Poetry
It was uncontrollable, overpowered by others, these colors within me, staring out at a black and white world; without sp — Anthony Liccione
Versifying left her cold. Poems were too close to prayer, rousing regrettable passions. Waiting for God to rescue you wh — Colson Whitehead, The Underground Railroad
For me,you are fresh waterthat falls from treeswhen it has stopped raining. For me, you are cinnamon that lingers on the — Kamand Kojouri
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I have loved this world in ways it could never love me back. — Anjum Choudhary
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all theorieslike clichesshot to hell,all these small faceslooking upbeautiful and believing;I wish to weepbut sorrow iss — Charles Bukowski, What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire