William Carlos Williams Quotes - Page 6

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.

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.

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

Without invention nothing is well-spaced.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation a descent follows, endless and indestructible.

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.

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

Each speech having its own character, the poetry it engenders will be peculiar to that speech also in its own intrinsic form. The effect is beauty, what in a single object resolves our complex feelings of propriety.

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter.

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

We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

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