THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and… — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire… — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
The poem springs from the half spoken words of the patient.... When asked, how I have for so many years continued an… — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
“unsignificantly off the coast there was a splash quite unnoticed this was Icarus drowning” — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
“You're a romanticist. What do you think a man is, a papaya? To digest your dinner? In pill form?” — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses. — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound. — William Carlos Williams Copy Share Image
