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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.
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
Road
Blue
Northeast
Wind
Surge
Cold
Contagious
Hospital
Hospitals
Clouds
Driven
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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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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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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
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O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
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Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.
William Carlos Williams
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
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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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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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No ideas but in things.
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For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
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Nothing whips my blood like verse.
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Death will be too late to bring us aid.
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we, in that instant, lost, breathless to be witnesses, as if we stood ourselves refreshed among the shining fauna of that fire.
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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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Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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Unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line, the old will go on repeating itself with recurring deadliness
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the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.
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Sometimes I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, about Lao Tzu's famous dictum: 'Govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish.' All around me I see something very different, let us say - a number of angry dwarfs trying to grill a whale.
William Carlos Williams