William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

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 ...

Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year
Thirtyfive yearsI lived with my husband
The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers
Masses of ...

As the catclimbed overthe top ofthe jamclosetfirst the rightforefootcarefullythen the hindstepped downinto the pit ofthe emptyflowerpot

By the road to the contagious hospitalunder the surge of the bluemottled clouds driven from thenortheast — a cold wind
Beyond, thewaste of broad, muddy fieldsbrown with dried weeds, standing and fallenpatches of standing waterthe scattering o...

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...

When over the flowery, sharp pasture'sedge, unseen, the salt oceanlifts its form—chicory and daisiestied, released, seem hardly flowers alonebut color and the movement—or the shapeperhaps—of restlessness, whereasthe sea is circled and swayspeacefu...

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

Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang and when he emerged from that one hundred eight minutes off the surface of the earth he was smiling
Then he returned to take his place among the rest of us from al...

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

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

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 ...