Wallace Stevens

Quick question: Does anybody know of a good biography of Wallace Stevens? I was thinking about Stevens a lot today: about his tormented poetry, about the fact that he was a lawyer and his "real" life was probably so different from the excitement and newness of his poems, and I was wondering, then, how and what his life was like.

Actually, to get into it more, I was sitting in Riverside Park with the gf looking out at the Hudson River, and it was a beautiful day, it was Shabbos (the holy Sabbath), and I looked out and up and through the trees, and suddenly was pierced by the final and beginning images of my favorite (or one of my favorite) Stevens poem - Sunday Morning, about how it's all here and now, the beauty, and we should just appreciate it. I want to quote it. Maybe I will. It's basically about forgetting about the heavenly God or gods and focusing on the here and the beauty of the earth. And I got that picture, and then, almost coterminably, into my mind came the image of a sad, lonely, lawyer Stevens, sitting at his bland, melancholy desk and staring at a brown, unadorned wall. Who knows - maybe it's true or not. I wish I knew. Thus, the Stevens biography. I wish I knew the man. He was probably very crotchety. I love his poems.

Here is the last stanza of Sunday Morning:

She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.