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July 2, 2008 Paoli, Pennsylvania From the Academy Audio Archive
About this Poem 

Of the poem, Williams said, "I was thinking of Demuth's picture of the sky over the horizon." Despite its simple beginnings, "A Love Song" went through multiple revisions—to the point that Williams sent a second draft to the literary journal Poetry after Ezra Pound had already forwarded an earlier one to the editor.

A Love Song

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?

First published in Poems 1916.
 

First published in Poems 1916.
 

William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

Poet, novelist, essayist, and playwright William Carlos Williams is often said to have been one of the principal poets of the Imagist movement.

by this poet

poem
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 know
that there were flowers also
poem

Daniel Boone, the father of Kentucky. Col. W. Crawford, the martyr to Indian revenge. Simon Gerty, the White Savage. Molly Finney, the beautiful Canadian Captive. Majors Samuel and John McCullough, patriots and frontiersmen. Lewis Wetzel, the Indian killer. Simon Kenton, the intrepid pioneer. Gen. George R. Clark,

poem
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned 
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was