by Wallace Stevens

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

Moisture and heat have swollen the garden into a slum of bloom.

I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.

 

 

Note: Today is the birthday of the American poet, Wallace Stevens, who was born on this day on this day in 1879. 

Stevens grew up to be an insurance agent in Hartford, Connecticut, and he lived across the street from Elizabeth Park, which contains one of the three largest rose gardens in the country on 102 acres of incredible beauty.

You can tell from much of his poetry that Stevens was a lover of nature and gardens.
Thus, Wallace was an insurance man by day and a poet by night.


As featured on
The Daily Gardener podcast:

Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens