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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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
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Blind
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Poets
Angels
Angel
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
Death will be too late to bring us aid.
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Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.
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Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?
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I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.
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As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world
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I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.
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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.
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Who isn't frustrated and does not prove it by his actions - if you want to say so? But through art the psychologically maimed may become the most distinguished man of his age. Take Freud for instance.
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To make a start, out of particulars and make them general, rolling up the sum, by defective means Sniffing the trees, just another dog among a lot of dogs.What else is there? And to do?
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But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
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It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
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That which is possible is inevitable.
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As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.
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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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we, in that instant, lost, breathless to be witnesses, as if we stood ourselves refreshed among the shining fauna of that fire.
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Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
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A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.
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It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.
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I think of the poetry of René Char and all he must have seen and suffered that has brought him to speak only of sedgy rivers, of daffodils and tulips whose roots they water, even to the free-flowing river that laves the rootlets of those sweet-scented flowers that people the milky way
William Carlos Williams