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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537364" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Celebration</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A middle-northern March, now as always-- <br>gusts from the South broken against cold winds-- <br>but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, <br>it moves--not into April--into a second March, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping <br>upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree <br>upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So we will put on our pink felt hat--new last year! <br>--newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back <br>the seasons--and let us walk to the orchid-house, <br>see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow <br>at the Palace. <br>Stop here, these are our oleanders. <br>When they are in bloom-- <br>You would waste words <br>It is clearer to me than if the pink <br>were on the branch. It would be a searching in <br>a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless, <br>shows the very reason for their being. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And these the orange-trees, in blossom--no need <br>to tell with this weight of perfume in the air. <br>If it were not so dark in this shed one could better <br>see the white. <br>It is that very perfume <br>has drawn the darkness down among the leaves. <br>Do I speak clearly enough? <br>It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone <br>loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings-- <br>not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion <br>of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves <br>its own caretaker. <br>And here are the orchids! <br>Never having seen <br>such gaiety I will read these flowers for you: <br>This is an odd January, died--in Villon's time. <br>Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet <br>grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this, a certain July from Iceland: <br>a young woman of that place <br>breathed it toward the South. It took root there. <br>The color ran true but the plant is small. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This falling spray of snow-flakes is <br>a handful of dead Februaries <br>prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez <br>of Guatemala. <br>Here's that old friend who <br>went by my side so many years: this full, fragile <br>head of veined lavender. Oh that April <br>that we first went with our stiff lusts <br>leaving the city behind, out to the green hill-- <br>May, they said she was. A hand for all of us: <br>this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August <br>the over-heavy one. And here are-- <br>russet and shiny, all but March. And March? <br>Ah, March-- <br>Flowers are a tiresome pastime. <br>One has a wish to shake them from their pots <br>root and stem, for the sun to gnaw. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Walk out again into the cold and saunter home <br>to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough. <br>I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze <br>instead which will at least warm our hands <br>and stir up the talk. <br>I think we have kept fair time. <br>Time is a green orchard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Carlos+Williams">William Carlos Williams</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537364" data-title="A Celebration de William Carlos Williams" data-description="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, 

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping 
upon the mol..."></div>
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