“A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only.” — 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
