Reading Wallace Stevens I am either mesmerized or bored, and in the latter case find myself thinking that it's like listening to an insurance salesman go on and on, and he was an insurance salesman so maybe that explains it. More likely it's just me, my fickle ear. Regardless, I believe he deserved the Pulitzer and more for the likes of this:
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse
without a rider on a road at night.
The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
It is someone walking rapidly in the street.
The reader by the window has finished his book
and tells the hour by the lateness of the sounds.
Even breathing is the beating of time, in kind.