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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.
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
Lost
Witnesses
Stood
Instant
Witness
Shining
Among
Fauna
Vision
Refreshed
Fire
Breathless
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The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky
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The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
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If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?
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Time is a storm in which we are all lost.
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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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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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It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you
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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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O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
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Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!
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As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world
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A poem is a small machine made of words.
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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?
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History must stay open, it is all humanity.
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The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
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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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There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?
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