Richard Wilbur Quotes

Writing is…waiting for the word that may not be there until next Tuesday.

All night, this headland Lunges into the rumpling Cape work of the wind.

It is not tricks of sense But the time’s fright within me which distracts Least fancies into violence.

Columbus and his men, they say, Conveyed the virus hither Whereby my features rot away And vital powers wither; Yet had they not traversed the seas And come infected back, Why, think of all the luxuries That modern life would lack.

The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessed day.

Outside the open window The morning air is all a wash with angels.