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I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
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
Advancing
Fallen
Clouds
Sun
Watches
Watch
Pomp
Pursuing
More quotes by Denise Levertov
Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
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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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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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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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I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.
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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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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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What joy when the insouciant armadillo glances at us and doesn't quicken his trotting across the track into the palm brush. What is this joy? That no animal falters, but knows what it must do?
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Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
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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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One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language.
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The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
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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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Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
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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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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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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.
Denise Levertov
Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.
Denise Levertov