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ClassicsWilliam Carlos Williams
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.
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Portrait Of A Lady
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze—or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort of man was Fragonard? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore— Which shore?— the sand clings to my lips— Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree.
William Carlos Williams
Classics
William Carlos Williams
1883 - 1963/Male/American