Quote

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

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
Rounds
Grass
Flamed
Sorrow
Closes
Cold
Yard
Fire
Yards
Year
Grieving
Often
Flames
Years
Round

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No ideas but in things.
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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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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The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
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There is no comment on pictures but pictures, on music but music, on poems but poetry. If you do, you do. If you don't, you don't. And that's all there is to that.
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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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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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Sometimes I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, about Lao Tzu's famous dictum: 'Govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish.' All around me I see something very different, let us say - a number of angry dwarfs trying to grill a whale.
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THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
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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 beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast - a cold wind.
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One by one the objects are defined? It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf But now the stark dignity of entrance?Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken.
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Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them
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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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Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.
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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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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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