A Quote by Wallace Stevens

At evening casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink
Downward to darkness, on extended wings. — © Wallace Stevens
At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Out there people are working and arguing and laughing, living their beautiful, terrible lives, falling in love and having babies and being bored out of their skulls and feeling depressed, then being consoled by some little thing like watching the patterns the light makes through the leaves of trees, casting shadows on the sidewalks. I remember the line from that poem now. Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
[Pigeons are] rats with wings.
If pigs had wings, they would be pigeons.
Pigeons: They've got wings, but they walk a lot.
Those wretches who never have experienced the sweets of wisdom and virtue, but spend all their time in revels and debauches, sink downward day after day, and make their whole life one continued series of errors.
If killing yourself is not an option anymore, you have to sink into the darkness instead, and make something out of it.
We used to send whole flocks of birds shooting out of our mouths and never managed to grab them by their wings.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
Teaching is a calling too. And I've always thought that teachers in their way are holy - angels leading their flocks out of the darkness.
Our correspondences have wings - paper birds that fly from my house to yours - flocks of ideas crisscrossing the country. Once opened, a connection is made. We are not alone in the world.
I love the pigeons. I just raise them, period, and feed them. Pigeons go away, and they always come back. You get a touch of freedom, and then they are free to come back to you. I love the idea of pigeons.
The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels.
The English dance unites the guests of an evening by the spell of rhythmical movement into a chance casual community.
I'll sit in the park and feed the pigeons for a while.' We don't have pigeons.' Then I'll feed the pterodactyls.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
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