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The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

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
Beckons
Ascent
Descent
Beckoned

More quotes by William Carlos Williams

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It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.
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The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
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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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Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
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Each speech having its own character, the poetry it engenders will be peculiar to that speech also in its own intrinsic form. The effect is beauty, what in a single object resolves our complex feelings of propriety.
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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.
William Carlos Williams
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First we have to see. Or first we have to be taught to see. We have to be taught to see here, because here is everywhere, related to everywhere else, and if we don't see, hear, taste, smell and feel in this place - not only will we never know anything but the world of sense will be by that much diminished everywhere.
William Carlos Williams
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Sunshine of late afternoon-- On the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying--And the immaculate white bed
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There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.
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beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.
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Prose may carry a load of ill-defined matters like a ship. But poetry is the machine which drives it, pruned to a perfect economy.
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The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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When I am alone I am happy.
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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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So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.
William Carlos Williams
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Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter.
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If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?
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It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you
William Carlos Williams