Quote

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

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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
Waiting
Upon
Lethargic
Attendant
Shaken
Fire
Beauty

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But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.
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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.
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The War is the first and only thing in the world today. The arts generally are not, nor is this writing a diversion from that for relief, a turning away. It is the war or part of it, merely a different sector of the field.
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For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation a descent follows, endless and indestructible.
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All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
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Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
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Unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line, the old will go on repeating itself with recurring deadliness
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beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.
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I have never been one to write by rule, not even by my own rules.
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The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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A poem is a small machine made of words.
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My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.
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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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[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.
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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
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The job of the poet is to use language effectively, his own language, the only language which is to him authentic.
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The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
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