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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
Grass
Flamed
Sorrow
Closes
Cold
Yard
Fire
Yards
Year
Grieving
Often
Flames
Years
Round
Rounds
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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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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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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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The War is the first and only thing in the world today. The arts generally are not, nor is this writing a diversion from that for relief, a turning away. It is the war or part of it, merely a different sector of the field.
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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 poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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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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I thought my friends were damn fools, because they didn't know any better way of conducting their lives. Still they conformed better than I to a code. I wanted to conform but I couldn't so I wrote my poetry.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
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A new music is a new mind.
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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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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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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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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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A new world is only a new mind.
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A poem is a small machine made out of words.
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The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
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