William Carlos Williams
The Hunters in the Snow
1962 The over-all picture is winter Icy mountains In the background the return From the hunt it is toward evening From the left Sturdy hunters lead in Their pack the inn-sign Hanging from A
To A Friend
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men-and The baby hard to find a father for! What will the good Father in Heaven say To the local judge if he do not solve this problem? A little
The Desolate Field
Vast and grey, the sky Is a simulacrum To all but him whose days Are vast and grey and- In the tall, dried grasses A goat stirs With nozzle searching the ground. My head
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
Poem (As the cat)
As the cat Climbed over The top of The jamcloset First the right Forefoot Carefully Then the hind Stepped down Into the pit of The empty Flowerpot
The Ivy Crown
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another, from its confinement- Or find a deeper well. Antony and Cleopatra were right; They have shown the
Spring And All
By the road to the contagious hospital Under the surge of the blue Mottled clouds driven from the Northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the Waste of broad, muddy fields Brown with dried weeds, standing and
Overture To A Dance Of Locomotives
Men with picked voices chant the names Of cities in a huge gallery: promises That pull through descending stairways To a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet Of those coming to be carried quicken a
Romance Moderne
Tracks of rain and light linger in The spongy greens of a nature whose Flickering mountain-bulging nearer, Ebbing back into the sun Hollowing itself away to hold a lake,- Or brown stream rising and
Sympathetic Portrait Of A Child
The murderer’s little daughter Who is barely ten years old Jerks her shoulders Right and left So as to catch a glimpse of me Without turning round. Her skinny little arms Wrap themselves This
Tract
I will teach you my townspeople How to perform a funeral For you have it over a troop Of artists- Unless one should scour the world- You have the ground sense necessary. See! the
The Dance
In Breughel’s great picture, The Kermess, The dancers go round, they go round and Around, the squeal and the blare and the Tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles Tipping their bellies, (round as
Nantucket
Flowers through the window Lavender and yellow Changed by white curtains- Smell of cleanliness- Sunshine of late afternoon- On the glass tray A glass pitcher, the tumbler Turned down, by which A key is
From "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"
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
A Celebration
A middle-northern March, now as always – Gusts from the South broken against cold winds – But from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, It moves-not into April-into a second March,