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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.

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
Enter
Appearance
Naked
Save
Dazed
Spring
Sluggish
Approach
Lifeless
Cold
Approaches
World
Uncertain

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All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
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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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It is difficult to get the news from poetry, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
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Time is a storm in which we are all lost.
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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.
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The American idiom has much to offer us that the English language has never heard of
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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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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A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
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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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By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.
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I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.
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the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.
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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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As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.
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The pure products of America go crazy
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing they are buffeted by a dark wind - But what? On harsh weedstalks the flock has rested - the snow is covered with broken seed husks and the wind tempered with a shrill piping of plenty.
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My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
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