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Of asphodel, that greeny flower,          like a buttercup                    upon its branching stem-save that it's green and wooden-          I come, my sweet,                    to sing to you.

We lived long together          a life filled,                    if you will,with flowers.  So that          I was cheered                    when I came first to knowthat there were flowers also          in hell.                    TodayI'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers          that we both loved,                    even to this poorcolorless thing-          I saw it                    when I was a child-little prized among the living          but the dead see,                    asking among themselves:

What do I remember          that was shaped                    as this thing is shaped?while our eyes fill          with tears.                    Of love, abiding loveit will be telling          though too weak a wash of crimson                    colors itto make it wholly credible.          There is something                    something urgentI have to say to you          and you alone                    but it must waitwhile I drink in          the joy of your approach,                    perhaps for the last time.

And so          with fear in my heart                    I drag it outand keep on talking          for I dare not stop.                    Listen while I talk onagainst time.          It will not be                    for long.

I have forgot          and yet I see clearly enough                    somethingcentral to the sky          which ranges round it.                    An odorsprings from it!          A sweetest odor!                    Honeysuckle!  And nowthere comes the buzzing of a bee!          and a whole flood                    of sister memories!

Only give me time,          time to recall them                    before I shall speak out.

Give me time,          time.

When I was a boy          I kept a book                    to which, from timeto time,          I added pressed flowers                    until, after a time,

I had a good collection.          The asphodel,                    forebodingly,among them.          I bring you,                    reawakened,a memory of those flowers.          They were sweet                    when I pressed themand retained          something of their sweetness                    a long time.

It is a curious odor,          a moral odor,                    that brings menear to you.          The color                    was the first to go.

There had come to me          a challenge,                    your dear self,mortal as I was,          the lily's throat                    to the hummingbird!

Endless wealth,          I thought,                    held out its arms to me.

A thousand tropics          in an apple blossom.                    The generous earth itselfgave us lief.          The whole world                    became my garden!

But the sea          which no one tends                    is also a gardenwhen the sun strikes it          and the waves                    are wakened.

I have seen it          and so have you                    when it puts all flowersto shame.          Too, there are the starfish                    stiffened by the sunand other sea wrack          and weeds.  We knew that                    along with the rest of itfor we were born by the sea,          knew its rose hedges                    to the very water's brink.

There the pink mallow grows          and in their season                    strawberriesand there, later,          we went to gather                    the wild plum.

I cannot say          that I have gone to hell                    for your lovebut often          found myself there                    in your pursuit.

I do not like it          and wanted to be                    in heaven.  Hear me out.

Do not turn away.

I have learned much in my life          from books                    and out of themabout love.          Death                    is not the end of it.

There is a hierarchy          which can be attained,                    I think,in its service.          Its guerdon                    is a fairy flower;a cat of twenty lives.          If no one came to try it                    the worldwould be the loser.          It has been                    for you and meas one who watches a storm          come in over the water.                    We have stoodfrom year to year          before the spectacle of our lives                    with joined hands.

The storm unfolds.          Lightning                    plays about the edges of the clouds.

The sky to the north          is placid,                    blue in the afterglowas the storm piles up.          It is a flower                    that will soon reachthe apex of its bloom.          We danced,                    in our minds,and read a book together.          You remember?                    It was a serious book.

And so books          entered our lives.

The sea!  The sea!          Always                    when I think of the seathere comes to mind          the Iliad                    and Helen's public faultthat bred it.          Were it not for that                    there would have been no poem but the world          if we had remembered,                    those crimson petalsspilled among the stones,          would have called it simply                    murder.

The sexual orchid that bloomed then          sending so many                    disinterestedmen to their graves          has left its memory                    to a race of foolsor heroes          if silence is a virtue.                    The sea alonewith its multiplicity          holds any hope.                    The stormhas proven abortive          but we remain                    after the thoughts it rousedto          re-cement our lives.                    It is the mindthe mind          that must be cured                    short of death'sintervention,          and the will becomes again                    a garden.  The poemis complex and the place made          in our lives                    for the poem.

Silence can be complex too,          but you do not get far                    with silence.

Begin again.          It is like Homer's                    catalogue of ships:it fills up the time.          I speak in figures,                    well enough, the dressesyou wear are figures also,          we could not meet                    otherwise.  When I speakof flowers          it is to recall                    that at one timewe were young.          All women are not Helen,                    I know that,but have Helen in their hearts.          My sweet,                    you have it also, thereforeI love you          and could not love you otherwise.                    Imagine you sawa field made up of women          all silver-white.                    What should you dobut love them?          The storm bursts                    or fades!  it is notthe end of the world.          Love is something else,                    or so I thought it,a garden which expands,          though I knew you as a woman                    and never thought otherwise,until the whole sea          has been taken up                    and all its gardens.

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 goodness          that moved me                    and that I saw in you.

I should have known,          though I did not,                    that the lily-of-the-valleyis a flower makes many ill          who whiff it.                    We had our children,rivals in the general onslaught.          I put them aside                    though I cared for well as any man          could care for his children                    according to my lights.

You understand          I had to meet you                    after the eventand have still to meet you.          Love                    to which you too shall bowalong with me-          a flower                    a weakest flowershall be our trust          and not because                    we are too feebleto do otherwise          but because                    at the height of my powerI risked what I had to do,          therefore to prove                    that we love each otherwhile my very bones sweated          that I could not cry to you                    in the act.

Of asphodel, that greeny flower,          I come, my sweet,                    to sing to you!

My heart rouses          thinking to bring you news                    of somethingthat concerns you          and concerns many men.  Look at                    what passes for the new.

You will not find it there but in          despised poems.                    It is difficultto get the news from poems          yet men die miserably every day                    for lackof what is found there.          Hear me out                    for I too am concernedand every man          who wants to die at peace in his bed                    besides.

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William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams (September 17, 1883 – March 4, 1963) was a Puerto Rican-American poet, writer, and physician closely associated with mod…

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