William Carlos Williams Quotes

Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.

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.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

Sunshine of late afternoon-- On the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying--And the immaculate white bed

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

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

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.

the set pieces of your faces stir me - leading citizens - but not in the same way.

Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

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.

Minds like beds always made up (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable.

I will teach you my townspeople how to perform a funeral for you have it over a troop of artists unless one should scour the world you have the ground sense necessary.

By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast - a cold wind.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.

Without invention nothing is well-spaced.

Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

We sit and talk, quietly, with long lapses of silenceand I am aware of the streamthat has no language, coursingbeneath the quiet heaven ofyour eyeswhich has no speech

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

It is at the edge of the petal that love waits

so much dependsupona red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens.

For the beginning is assuredlythe end- since we know nothing, pureand simple, beyondour own complexities.

What power has love but forgiveness?In other wordsby its interventionwhat has been donecan be undone.What good is it otherwise?

But the seawhich no one tendsis also a garden

A man is indeed a city, and for the poet there are no ideas but in things.

Their story, yours, mine - it's what we all carry with us on this trip we take, and we owe it to each other to respect our stories and learn from them.

The HurricaneThe tree lay downon the garage roof and stretched, You have your heaven, it said, go to it.

Hold back the edges of your gown, Ladies, we are going through hell.

We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness. Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.

unsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis was Icarus drowning

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.