All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“Are we like two stars in a constellationSeeming so closeAnd making so much senseYet in realityWe are separated by lightyearsAnd shall never meet?Except, perhapsIn that sacred spaceBetween dreams and realityCalled hope.”

“So what if the airin Paris smells of romance?My shirt smells of you.”

“All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter, slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,And Hope without an object cannot live.- Work without Hope”

“Your poetry–it doesn’t deserve to be locked away, hidden from the rest of the world. And neither do you.”

“stronger than mountains.a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.”

“i immersemyselfin youlikei immerse myselfinto a beautiful story.”

“When striving througha pitch-black night,if you find yourselfmarooned and blue,lift your head highand take a sight,of the billion starsall rooting for you.”

“Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain.”

“if the rain you left behindfor me to deal withtaught me anything in this life,it would be that after every showerthere would be rays of sunso I will believe the sky when it criesthat all will be okayeventually.”

“SonnetI am no stranger in the house of pain;I am familiar with its every part,From the low stile, then up the crooked laneTo the dark doorway, intimate to my heart.Here did I sit with grief and eat his bread,Here was I welcomed as misfortune’s guest,And there’s no room but where I’ve laid my headOn misery’s accomodating breast.So, sorrow, does my knocking rouse you up?Open the door, old mother; it is I.Bring grief’s good goblet out, the sad, sweet cup;Fill it with wine of silence, strong and dry.For I’ve a story to amuse your ears,Of youth and hope, of middle age and tears.”

“Gloria watched the swollen white orb of a hot-air balloon rising over Navy Pier and knew she had to break it off with Oliver, for he was the type who would never enjoy hot-air balloons, Van Morrison songs, or mess, whether from orgasm or otherwise. But who was she to be dreaming about mess today?”

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

“Fireflies, to me, are nighttime butterflies, Dazzling the night with magical flashes of light. When I see these teeny tiny sparks dart in the night, I am overcome with a sense of comfort and calm, Same as when a butterfly flutters around me during the day. I’m drawn to the dance of both astonishing critters. They remind me of life. They remind me of hope.”

“Love starts as a feeling,But to continue is a choice;And I find myself choosing youMore and more every day.”

“Like two stars in the depths of the skyThis gravity is just irresistibleWe spin around each other, you and IWhen I fell for you, I fell into your orbit.”