Beespittle, droppings, hairs of beefur: all become honey. Virulent micro-organisms cannot survive in honey. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
You can live for years next door to a big pine tree, honored to have so venerable a neighbor, even when it sheds needles all over your flowers or wakes you, dropping big cones onto your deck at still of… — 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
This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers animal vines twisting over theline and slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment in… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer. — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
I see him across the street, the blind man, and now he says he can find his way. He knows where he is going,… — Denise Levertov Copy Share Image
