All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“Still must the poet as of old,In barren attic bleak and cold,Starve, freeze, and fashion verses toSuch things as flowers and song and you;Still as of old his being giveIn Beauty’s name, while she may live,Beauty that may not die as longAs there are flowers and you and song.”

“Where were you then?Who else was there?Saying what?Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?”

“An orphan’s curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.”

“Outside our small safe place flies mystery.”

“Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.”

“You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.”

“A Hard Life With MemoryI’m a poor audience for my memory.She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,but I fidget, fuss,listen and don’t,step out, come back, then leave again.She wants all my time and attention.She’s got no problem when I sleep.The day’s a different matter, which upsets her.She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,stirs up events both important and un-,turns my eyes to overlooked views,peoples them with my dead.In her stories I’m always younger.Which is nice, but why always the same story.Every mirror holds different news for me.She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,weighty, but easily forgotten.Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.Then comforts me, it could be worse.She wants me to live only for her and with her.Ideally in a dark, locked room,but my plans still feature today’s sun,clouds in progress, ongoing roads.At times I get fed up with her.I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.Then she smiles at me with pity,since she knows it would be the end of me too.”

“A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!”

“And yet this self, containsTides, continents and stars―a myriad selves,Is small and solitary as one grass-bladePassed over by the windAmongst a myriad grasses on the prairie.”

“The Long HillI must have passed the crest a while ago And now I am going down– Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know, But the brambles were always grabbing at the hem of my gown.All the morning I thought how proud I should be To stand there straight as a queen, Wrapped in the wind and the sun with the world under me– But the air was dull, there was little I could have seen. It was nearly level along the beaten track And the brambles caught in my gown– But it’s no use now to think of turning back, The rest of the way will be only going down.”

“A BoyOut of the noise of tired people working,Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes–Men die by millions now, because God blunders,Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.”

“Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.”

“I’m happy. But some beauty is nonesuch – The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that’s just a little skewed And that, for which, I won’t be waiting much.”

“GospelThe new grass rising in the hills,the cows loitering in the morning chill,a dozen or more old browns hiddenin the shadows of the cottonwoodsbeside the streambed. I go higherto where the road gives up and there’sonly a faint path strewn with lupinebetween the mountain oaks. I don’task myself what I’m looking for.I didn’t come for answersto a place like this, I came to walkon the earth, still cold, still silent.Still ungiving, I’ve said to myself,although it greets me with last year’sdead thistles and this year’s hard spines, early bloomingwild onions, the curling remainsof spider’s cloth. What did I bring to the dance? In my back pocketa crushed letter from a womanI’ve never met bearing bad newsI can do nothing about. So I wanderthese woods half sightless whilea west wind picks up in the treesclustered above. The pines makea music like no other, rising and falling like a distant surf at nightthat calms the darkness before first light. “Soughing” we call it, fromOld English, no less. How weightlesswords are when nothing will do.”

“Following dark winter’s strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.”