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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow
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
Much
Barrow
Wheel
Wheels
Red
Depends
Upon
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.
William Carlos Williams
A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
William Carlos Williams
I tried to put a bird in a cage. O fool that I am! For the bird was Truth. Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to put Truth in a cage!
William Carlos Williams
What power has love but forgiveness?
William Carlos Williams
There's nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words.
William Carlos Williams
The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
William Carlos Williams
For there is a wind or a ghost of wind in all books echoing the life there, a high wind that fills the tubes of the ear until we think we hear a wind, actual.
William Carlos Williams
The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.
William Carlos Williams
There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.
William Carlos Williams
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
William Carlos Williams
Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.
William Carlos Williams
THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
William Carlos Williams
When I am alone I am happy.
William Carlos Williams
The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.
William Carlos Williams
But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
William Carlos Williams
In summer, the song sings itself.
William Carlos Williams
If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
William Carlos Williams
So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.
William Carlos Williams
You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
William Carlos Williams
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.
William Carlos Williams