“Trying to remember old dreams. A voice. Who came in. And meanwhile the rain, all day, all evening, quiet steady sound. Before… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
“The roses tremble; oh, the sunflower's eye Is opened wide in sad expectancy. Westward and back the circling swallows fly, The rooks'… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
“The Broken Sandal" Dreamed the thong of my sandal broke. Nothing to hold it to my foot. How shall I walk? Barefoot?… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
Death and pain dominate this world, for though many are cured, they leave still weak, still tremulous, still knowing mortality has whispered to them;… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
I believe every space and comma is a living part of the poem and has its function, just as every muscle and pore of… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something this is in process. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
Putting his hope in certain death, lowering his head again to the grass. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
slowly the pale dew-beads of light lapped up from flowers can thicken, darken to gold: honey of the human. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
“I am, a shadow that grows longer as the sun moves, drawn out on a thread of wonder. If I bear burdens they begin… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am... — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
