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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!
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
Toward
Courage
Strange
Lend
Alone
Sunrise
Stars
Shine
Part
Shining
Give
Star
Giving
Ancient
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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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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A new world is only a new mind.
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Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.
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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.
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No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.
William Carlos Williams
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.
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.
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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
William Carlos Williams
Empty pockets make empty heads.
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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
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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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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No opinion can be trusted even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.
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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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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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The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.
William Carlos Williams
The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
William Carlos Williams
A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
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It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
William Carlos Williams