On Poetry Quotes

The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read the.

There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

She lives in the poetry she cannot write.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.Let me keep company always with those who say "Look!" and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.

It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down—It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their Tongues, for Noon.

A book of verses underneath the boughA flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thouBeside me singing in the wildernessAnd wilderness is paradise now.

She dances in a ring of fire and throws of the challenge with a shrug.

She dances in a ring of fire and throws off the challenge with a shrug.

Out of love, No regrets--Though the goodnessBe wasted forever.Out of love, No regrets--Though the returnBe never.

When from our better selves we have too longBeen parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude

A mighty flame follows a tiny spark.

she slammed the door andwas gone.I looked at the closed doorand at the doorknoband strangelyI didn't feelalone.

Cheap little rhymesA cheap little tuneAre sometimes as dangerousAs a sliver of the moon.

Pleasured equallyIn seeking as in finding, Each detail minding, Old Walt went seekingAnd finding.

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flightThe Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikesThe Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light

it's so easy to be a poetand so hard to be a man.

THERE is no frigate like a book/ To take us lands away...

And then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw.

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —

Lovers, forget your love, And list the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze.

some see things as they are: others as they are” (p.82) ~CXCI

The lamb misused breeds public strifeAnd yet forgives the butcher's knife.

To see a World in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour.

I would not come in.I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.

Over the inter glaciers, I see the summer glow, And, through the wild-piled snowdrift, The warm rosebuds below.

I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feetHas led me- who knows how?To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

Language is fossil poetry

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

The same that oft-times hath charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.

I wait on my fix:I am a poetry junkie.

Some who grow dull religious straight commenceAnd gain in morals what they lose in sense.

No one can usurp the heights...But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

I went down to the river, I set down on the bank.I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank.

How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?

Over the mountain growths, disease and sorrow, An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering, High in the purer, happier air.

Painting is mute poetry, and poetry is blind painting

the worst thing, " he told me, "is bitterness, people end up sobitter.

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take.

There are things known and there are things unknownand in between are the doors.

Love, that moves the sun and the other stars

there are so many dayswhen living stops and pulls up and sitsand waits like a train on the rails.

A novel is a work of poetry. In order to write it, one must have tranquility of spirit and of impression.

It's better to swim in the sea belowThan to swing in the air and feed the crow, Says jolly Ned Teach of Bristol.