My question is "when did other people give up the idea of being a poet?" You know, when we are kids we make up things, we write, and for me the puzzle is not that some people are still writing,… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
All still when summer is over stand shocks in the field, nothing left to whisper, not even good-bye, to the wind. After summer was over we knew winter would come: we knew silence would wait, tall, patient calm. — William Stafford Copy Share Image
People wander about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. — William Stafford Copy Share Image
I don't see writing as a communication of something already discovered, as "truths" already known. Rather, I see writing as a job of experiment.… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
An owl sound wandered along the road with me. I didn't hear it--I breathed it into my ears. — William Stafford Copy Share Image
The Way It Is There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
It's love,' they say. You touch the right one and a whole half of the universe wakes up, a new half. — William Stafford Copy Share Image
“There may be losses too great to understand That rove after you and--faint and terrible-- rip unknown through your hand.” — William Stafford Copy Share Image
It is as if the ordinary language we use every day has a hidden set of signals, a kind of secret code. — William Stafford Copy Share Image
My question is "when did other people give up the idea of being a poet?" You know, when we are kids we make up… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
The things you do not have to say make you rich. Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk. Hearing… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
“I am your own way of looking at things," she said. "When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world… — William Stafford Copy Share Image
