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It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
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
Sweaters
Brown
Fairs
Fair
Sweater
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
A poem is a small machine made of words.
William Carlos Williams
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
William Carlos Williams
Empty pockets make empty heads.
William Carlos Williams
My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
William Carlos Williams
When I am alone I am happy.
William Carlos Williams
A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
William Carlos Williams
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
William Carlos Williams
Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.
William Carlos Williams
History must stay open, it is all humanity.
William Carlos Williams
Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
William Carlos Williams
Death will be too late to bring us aid.
William Carlos Williams
Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
William Carlos Williams
You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
William Carlos Williams
The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
William Carlos Williams
So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.
William Carlos Williams
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.
William Carlos Williams
O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
William Carlos Williams
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.
William Carlos Williams
all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
William Carlos Williams
The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
William Carlos Williams
