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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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Love is a landscape the long mountains define but don't shut off from the unseeable distance.
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I believe every space and comma is a living part of the poem and has its function, just as every muscle and pore of the body has its function. And the way the lines are broken is a functioning part essential to the life of the poem.
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Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
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Both art and faith are dependent on imagination both are ventures into the unknown.
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The vast silence of Buddha overtakes and overrules the oncoming roar of tragic life that fills alleys and avenues it blocks the way of pedicabs, police, convoys.
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Let the space under the first storey be dark, let the water lap the stone posts, and vivid green slime glimmer upon them let a boat be kept there.
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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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You can live for years next door to a big pine tree, honored to have so venerable a neighbor, even when it sheds needles all over your flowers or wakes you, dropping big cones onto your deck at still of night.
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In June the bush we call alder was heavy, listless, its leaves studded with galls, growing wherever we didn't want it.
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In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.
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Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.
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Teachers at all levels encourage the idea that you have to talk about things in order to understand them, because they wouldn't have jobs, otherwise. But it's phony, you know.
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The threat of world's end is the old threat.
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Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.
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Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.
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my pleasure was in the strength of my back, in my noble shoulders, the cool smooth flesh cylinders of my arms.
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Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
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An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples. The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird. So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.
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And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.
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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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