Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
Writing is?waiting for the word that may not be there until next Tuesday. — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry, Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam And clear dances done in the sight… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
“the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
We know what boredom is: it is a dull Impatience or a fierce velleity, A champing wish, stalled by our lassitude, To make or… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven;… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at… — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you. — Richard Wilbur Copy Share Image
