There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will. William Carlos Williams More Quotes by William Carlos Williams More Quotes From William Carlos Williams It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part! William Carlos Williams stars shining giving Empty pockets make empty heads. William Carlos Williams empty poverty pockets Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. - through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks. William Carlos Williams weed flower writing There's nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words. William Carlos Williams sentimental machines made A poem is a small machine made of words. William Carlos Williams machines made The pure products of America go crazy--mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves. William Carlos Williams kentucky crazy lakes But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi. William Carlos Williams wall mushrooms liars Sunshine of late afternoon-- William Carlos Williams sunshine keys lying I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it. William Carlos Williams damn spirit writing O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind. William Carlos Williams sunshine envy wings It's the anarchy of poverty William Carlos Williams delight house yellow so much depends William Carlos Williams depends red wheels If I admire my arms, my face, William Carlos Williams self yellow happiness Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr. William Carlos Williams cat dying wind I think of the poetry of René Char and all he must have seen and suffered that has brought him to speak only of sedgy rivers, of daffodils and tulips whose roots they water, even to the free-flowing river that laves the rootlets of those sweet-scented flowers that people the milky way William Carlos Williams flower sweet thinking The War is the first and only thing in the world today. The arts generally are not, nor is this writing a diversion from that for relief, a turning away. It is the war or part of it, merely a different sector of the field. William Carlos Williams writing war art Covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round! Were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done forever. William Carlos Williams forever hands moving By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast - a cold wind. William Carlos Williams blue clouds wind Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city. William Carlos Williams dark rain moving Prose may carry a load of ill-defined matters like a ship. But poetry is the machine which drives it, pruned to a perfect economy. William Carlos Williams machines perfect may
