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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
Sorrow
Closes
Cold
Yard
Fire
Yards
Year
Grieving
Often
Flames
Years
Round
Rounds
Grass
Flamed
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
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Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter.
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And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.
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Being an art form, verse cannot be free in the sense of having no limitations or guiding principle.
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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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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!
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Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
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Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse-- at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
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In summer, the song sings itself.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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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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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
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Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentities stirs me to it: colored women day workers- old and experienced- returning home at dusk, in cast off clothing faces like old Florentine oak.
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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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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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When I am alone I am happy.
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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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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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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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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
