Slow Movement
All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams: All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which I guard them; Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that they weary of shining; Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep finally. But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate than their night! And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little house of my treasures; For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely faint and sleepy As they are now.
William Carlos Williams
Other author posts
Light Hearted Author
The birches are mad with green points the wood's edge is burning with their green, burning, seething—No, no, no The birches are opening their leaves one by one Their delicate leaves unfold cold and separate, one by one Slender tasse...
The Young Housewife
At ten a m the young housewifemoves about in negligee behindthe wooden walls of her husband’s house I pass solitary in my car
The Desolate Field
Vast and grey, the skyis a simulacrumto all but him whose daysare vast and grey and —In the tall, dried grassesa goat stirswith muzzle searching the ground My head is in the airbut who am I
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow