William Williams Quotations

The poem, to me (until I go broke) is an attempt, an experiment, a failing experiment, toward assertion with broken means but an assertion, always, of a new and total culture, the lifting of an environment to expression. Thus it is social, the poem is a social instrument.

We are a half-mad race, and what we say is not to be trusted.

With what deep thirstwe quicken our desiresto that rank odor of a passing springtime!

The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.

Life is valuable -- when completed by the imagination. And then only.

Love you? It'sa fire in the blood, willy-nilly!

O Marvelous! what new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.

Minds like beds always made up,(more stony than a shore)unwilling or unable.

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.

My surface is myself.Under whichto witness, youth isburied. Roots?Everybody has roots.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

Night is a room darkened for lovers. . . .

If they give you lined paper, write the other way.

I have had my dream -- like others --and it has come to nothing, so thatI remain now carelesslywith feet planted on the groundand look up at the sky.

I have had my dream -- like others -- and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky.

I have discovered that most ofthe beauties of travel are due tothe strange hours we keep to see them. . . .

I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them. . . .

I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!

But we who are wisershut ourselves inon either handand no one knowswhether we think goodor evil.

But the thing that stands eternally in the way of really good writing is always one: the virtual impossibility of lifting to the imagination those things which lie under the direct scrutiny of the senses, close to the nose. It is this difficulty that sets a value upon all works of art and makes them a necessity. The senses witnessing what is immediately before them in detail see a finality which they cling to in despair, not knowing which way to turn. Thus this so-called natural or scientific array becomes fixed, the walking devil of modern life.

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

I feel the caress of my own fingerson my own neck as I place my collarand think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.

There is neither beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

Here it is spring againand I still a young man!I am late at my singing.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care? History begins for us with murder and enslavement, not with discovery.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.

It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

It is at the edge of a petal that love waits.

Some leaves hang late, some fallbefore the first frost--so goesthe tale of winter branches and old bones.

Some leaves hang late, some fall before the first frost--so goes the tale of winter branches and old bones.

I will teach you my townspeoplehow to perform a funeralfor you have it over a troopof artists--unless one should scour the world--you have the ground sense necessary.

Well--all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand--dreams are not a bad thing.

Well-- all things turn bitter in the end whether you choose the right or the left way and-- dreams are not a bad thing.

We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.

Time is a storm in which we are all lost. Only inside the convolutions of the storm itself shall we find our directions.

Thus having prepared their budsagainst a sure winterthe wise treesstand sleeping in the cold.

Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold.

When they ask me, as of late they frequently do, how I have for so many years continued an equal interest in medicine and the poem, I reply that they amount for me to nearly the same thing.

Times change and forms and their meanings alter. Thus new poems are necessary. Their forms must be discovered in the living language of their day, or old forms, embodying exploded concepts, will tyrannize over the imagination.

Who shall say I am notthe happy genius of my household?

Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?

When I was youngerit was plain to meI must make something of myself.Older nowI walk back streetsadmiring the housesof the very poor. . . .

When I was younger it was plain to me I must make something of myself. Older now I walk back streets admiring the houses of the very poor. . . .

We will it soand so it ispast all accident.

There is somethingsomething urgentI have to say to youand you alonebut it must waitwhile I drink inthe joy of your approach,perhaps for the last time.

There is something something urgent I have to say to you and you alone but it must wait while I drink in the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time.

At ten a.m. the young housewifemoves about in negligee behindthe wooden walls of her husband's house.I pass solitary in my car.

Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year.

so much dependsupona red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens.

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words tripped up, bewildered and so defeated - thrown aside - a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,by what devious means do you contriveto remain idle? Teach me, O master.

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am, by what devious means do you contrive to remain idle? Teach me, O master.

No woman is virtuous, who does not give herself to her lover

Antony and Cleopatrawere right;they have shownthe way. I love youor I do not liveat all.

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

The business of love iscruelty which,by our wills,we transformto live together.

You sullen pig of a manyou force me into the mudwith your stinking ash-cart!

You slapped my faceOh but so gently I smiledAt the caress.

You slapped my face Oh but so gently I smiled At the caress.

This is where the difficulty lies. We are lucky when that underground current can be tapped and the secret spring of all our lives will send up its pure water. It seldom happens. A thousand trivialities push themselves to the front, our lying habits of everyday speech and thought are foremost, telling us that that is what "they" want to hear. Tell them something else.

It was the love of love,the love that swallows up all else,a grateful love,a love of nature, of people,of animals,a love engenderinggentleness and goodnessthat moved meand that I saw in you.

It was the love of love, the love that swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of nature, of people, of animals, a love engendering gentleness and goodness that moved me and that I saw in you.

It is summer, it is the solsticethe crowd ischeering, the crowd is laughingin detailpermanently, seriouslywithout thought.

It is summer, it is the solstice the crowd is cheering, the crowd is laughing in detail permanently, seriously without thought.

Forget all rules, forget all restrictions, as to taste, as to what ought to be said, write for the pleasure of it -- whether slowly or fast -- every form of resistance to a complete release should be abandoned.

Everyone in this life is defeated. But a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.

I wanted to write a poemthat you would understand.For what good is it to meif you can't understand it?

I wanted to write a poem that you would understand. For what good is it to me if you can't understand it?

Again I reply to the triple windsrunning chromatic fifths of derisionoutside my window:Play louder.

Sleep!There is hunting in heaven --Sleep safe till tomorrow.

Sleep! There is hunting in heaven -- Sleep safe till tomorrow.

If you can bring nothing to this placebut your carcass, keep out.

If you can bring nothing to this place but your carcass, keep out.

In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader.

I cannot saythat I have gone to hellfor your lovebut often found myself there in your pursuit

The elm is scatteringits little loavesof sweet smellsfrom a white sky!