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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
Cold
Yard
Fire
Yards
Year
Grieving
Often
Flames
Years
Round
Rounds
Grass
Flamed
Sorrow
Closes
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The pure products of America go crazy
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Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish
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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones.
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Time is a storm in which we are all lost.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!
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O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.
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and there grows in the mind a scent, it may be, of locust blossoms whose perfume is itself a wind moving to lead the mind away.
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Covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round! Were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done forever.
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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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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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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.
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Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
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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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Nothing whips my blood like verse.
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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 only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
William Carlos Williams
