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As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world
William Carlos Williams
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William Carlos Williams
Age: 79 †
Born: 1883
Born: September 17
Died: 1963
Died: March 4
Autobiographer
Literary Critic
Physician
Physician Writer
Poet
Writer
Doe
Every
Bathe
Love
Falls
World
Object
Rain
Objects
Open
Fall
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.
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A poem is a small machine made out of words.
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You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?
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through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones.
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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
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What love is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.
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I will teach you my townspeople how to perform a funeral for you have it over a troop of artists unless one should scour the world you have the ground sense necessary.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.
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What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?
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Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.
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and there grows in the mind a scent, it may be, of locust blossoms whose perfume is itself a wind moving to lead the mind away.
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All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
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For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
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You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
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If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
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That which is possible is inevitable.
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