We know what boredom is: it is a dull Richard Wilbur More Quotes by Richard Wilbur More Quotes From Richard Wilbur Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder. Richard Wilbur selfbeautifulhands Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia. Richard Wilbur composition What's lightly hid is deepest understood. Richard Wilbur understood To claim, at a dead party, to have spotted a grackle, Richard Wilbur partytruthlying 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 that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody. Richard Wilbur selfwritingtalking 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 blaze. Richard Wilbur summerrainheart 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 lonelysongworld Try to remember this: what you project Is what you will perceive; what you perceive With any passion, be it love or terror, May take on whims and powers of its own. Therefore a numb and grudging circumspection Will serve you best - unless you overdo it, Watching your step too narrowly, refusing To specify a world, shrinking your purview To a tight vision of your inching shoes, Which may, as soon as you come to think, be crossing An unseen gorge upon a rotten trestle. Richard Wilbur shoespassionthinking What you hope for Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, like that, So neatly that you never feel a thing, The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead And blow your brains out. Richard Wilbur journeyblowsleep To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men. Richard Wilbur truepersonalthingsmen
