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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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
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Head
Common
Fiery
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Raises
Notes
Shall
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A new music is a new mind.
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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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the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.
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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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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation a descent follows, endless and indestructible.
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Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.
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Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.
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beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.
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You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
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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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The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow
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The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
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Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today, out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.
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Minds like beds always made up (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable.
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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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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.
William Carlos Williams
