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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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
Delights
Bricks
Anarchy
Yellow
Delight
Among
Tenements
Poverty
Wooden
House
Brick
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What love is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.
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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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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
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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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I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.
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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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In summer, the song sings itself.
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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 descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
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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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The pure products of America go crazy--mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves.
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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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What power has love but forgiveness?
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A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.
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beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.
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[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.
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Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.
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The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.
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