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William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

Thursday

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—
feeling my clothes about me,
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose—and decide to dream no more.

#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury

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Altre opere di William Carlos Williams...
The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
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“Libertad! Igualdad! Fraternidad!”

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The Yachts

contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
The Parable of the Blind

This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
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El Hombre

It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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Arrival

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Poem (As the Cat)

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Hunters in the Snow

The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Youth and Beauty

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
Queen-Anne’s Lace

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
Kora in Hell: Improvisations XIV

The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Queen Anne’s Lace

Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
The Corn Harvest

Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The Poem

It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The Wanderer

Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
 1



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