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A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
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
Endure
Profusion
Rose
Ragged
Rain
Enduring
Flower
Roses
Compassion
Pink
Speak
Gentleness
Care
Speaks
Generosity
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
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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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If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
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Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city.
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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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Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge
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A new music is a new mind.
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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
William Carlos Williams
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
William Carlos Williams
I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.
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The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky
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One thing I am convinced more and more is true, and that is this: The only way to be truly happy is to make others happy. When you realize that and take advantage of the fact, everything is made perfect.
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The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
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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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The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.
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There's nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words.
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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.
William Carlos Williams
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?
William Carlos Williams
A poem is a small machine made out of words.
William Carlos Williams
