Blizzard, by William Carlos Williams

One of the imagists, to whom we owe much of modern poetry.

Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

4 thoughts on “Blizzard, by William Carlos Williams

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