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But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

Denise Levertov

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Denise Levertov
Age: 74 †
Born: 1923
Born: October 24
Died: 1997
Died: December 20
Poet
Translator
Writer
Ilford
London
Priscilla D Levertoff
Priscilla Denise Levertoff
Priscilla Denise Levertov
Road
Walking
Stop

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There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.
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Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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The artist must create himself or be born again.
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In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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Beespittle, droppings, hairs of beefur: all become honey. Virulent micro-organisms cannot survive in honey.
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There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.
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The AvowalAs swimmers dareto lie face to the skyand water bears them,as hawks rest upon airand air sustains themso would I learn to attain freefall, and floatinto Creator Spirit's deep embrace,knowing no effort earnsthat all-surrounding grace.
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Love is a landscape the long mountains define but don't shut off from the unseeable distance.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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Peace as a positive condition of society, not merely as an interim between wars, is something so unknown that it casts no images on the mind's screen.
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Both art and faith are dependent on imagination both are ventures into the unknown.
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Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock.
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our nerve filaments twitch with its presence day and night, nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying, nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have.
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At Delphi I prayed to Apollo that he maintain in me the flame of the poem and I drank of the brackish spring there.
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The threat of world's end is the old threat.
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slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human.
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I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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