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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
House
Brick
Delights
Bricks
Anarchy
Yellow
Delight
Among
Tenements
Poverty
Wooden
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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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.
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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 instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.
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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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But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.
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Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
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the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.
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Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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No opinion can be trusted even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.
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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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A new music is a new mind.
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My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.
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Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.
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Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge
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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
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