Quotes by Richard Wilbur

“What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.”

“I love the sound of breaking glass Especially when Im lonely I need the noises of destruction When theres nothing new”

“Im complicated, sentimental, lovable, honest, loyal, decent, generous, likable, and lonely. My personality is not split; its shredded.”

“The little dog lay curled and did not rise But slept the deeper as the ashes rose, And found the people incomplete”

“It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; they constitute his ideal audience and his better self.”

“What you hope for is that at some point of the pointless journey, indoors or out, and when you least expect it, right in the middle of your stride, like that, so neatly that you never feel a thing, the kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead and blow yo”

“To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men.”

“Thats what (Hill) died for, the right for people to protest. But I dont think a funeral is the right place or context in the way they are protesting. Its not something the family needs to hear, that were glad your sons dead and that your minister is a whore.”

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the products something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

Seed Leaves Homage to R. F. Here something stubborn comes,Dislodging the earth crumbsAnd making crusty rubble.it comes up bending double,And looks like a green staple.It could be seedling maple,Or artichoke, or bean.That remains to be seen.Forced to make choice of ends,The stalk in time unbends,Shakes off the seed-case, heavesAloft, and spreads two leavesWhich still display no sureAnd special signature.Toothless and fat, they keepThe oval form of sleep.This plant would like to growAnd yet be embryo;In crease, and yet escapeThe doom of taking shape;Be vaguely vast, and climbTo the tip end of timeWith all of space to fill,Like boundless IgdrasilThat has the stars for fruit.But something at the rootMore urgent that the urgeBids two true leaves emerge;And now the plant, resignedTo being self-definedBefore it can commerceWith the great universe,Takes aim at all the skyAnd starts to ramify.

If the king had given me for my ownParis, his citadel,And I for that must leave aloneHer whom I love so well,Id say then to the CrownTake back your glittering townMy darling is more fair, I swear.My darling is more fair.

“Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the products something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.”