William Carlos Williams

First he said:
It is the woman in
That makes us write—Let us acknowledge it—Men would be silent
We are not

Flowers through the windowlavender and yellowchanged by white curtains –Smell of cleanliness – Sunshine of late afternoon –On the glass traya glass pitcher, the tumblerturned down, by whicha key is lying – And the immaculate white bed

The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices over those things that interest them
But we who are wiser shut ourselves in on either hand and no one knows whether we think good or evil
Meanwhile, the ...

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...

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 ...

The Archer is wake
The Swan is flying
Gold against blue An Arrow is lying
There is hunting in heaven— Sleep safe till tomorrow

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed
A liquid moon moves gently among the long branches
Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold