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This is what I have heard at last the wind in December lashing the old trees with rain unseen rain racing along the tiles under the moon wind rising and falling wind with many clouds trees in the night wind.

W. S. Merwin

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W. S. Merwin
Age: 91 †
Born: 1927
Born: September 30
Died: 2019
Died: March 15
Poet
Translator
Writer
New York City
New York
William Stanley Merwin
Tree
Falling
Heard
Trees
Lasts
Clouds
Lashing
Last
Rain
Tiles
Fall
Air
December
Night
Moon
Unseen
Many
Along
Racing
Wind
Rising

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We are not born to survive. Only to live.
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Laughter was the shape the darkness took around the first appearance of the light.
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We are the echo of the future.
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I needed my mistakes in their order to get me here
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Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you've lost the whole thing.
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I had hardly begun to read I asked how can you ever be sure that what you write is really any good at all and he said you can't you can't you can never be sure you die without knowing whether anything you wrote was any good if you have to be sure don't write
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Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.
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come back believer in shade believer in silence and elegance believer in ferns believer in patience believer in the rain
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The story of each stone leads back to a mountain.
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Poetry is a way of looking at the world for the first time.
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Through all of youth I was looking for you without knowing what I was looking for part memory part distance remaining mine in the ways that I learn to miss you from what we cannot hold the stars are made.
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I will take with me the emptiness of my hands. What you do not have you find everywhere
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I offer you what I have my Poverty
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If you can't bear what's happening to the natural world, if you can't bear the way we treat each other if you can't bear wars, you just can't bear the whole idea of war, which is possibly unavoidable. But still, you resist it. Because you just hate our treating each other that way and causing that suffering.
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You grieve Not that heaven does not exist but That it exists without us
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Sitting over words Very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing Not far Like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark The echo of everything that has ever Been spoken Still spinning its one syllable Between the earth and silence.
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Send me out into another life lord because this one is growing faint I do not think it goes all the way
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Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.
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we travel far and fast and as we pass through we forget where we have been
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I also think that life itself is both indifferent to us and the source of all of our joys and everything that we love. And it's necessary to accept the one in order to love the other.
W. S. Merwin