All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“There will never be an endTo this droning of the surf.”

“We Never Said FarewellWe never said farewell, nor even lookedOur last upon each other, for no signWas made when we the linkèd chain unhookedAnd broke the level line.And here we dwell together, side by side,Our places fixed for life upon the chart.Two islands that the roaring seas divideAre not more far apart.”

“Like poetry, in times of intense emotion the image returns to me. Like poetry, it stroked my soul and, by turns, lulled and stoked my senses.”

“Poetry is the sound of the human animal.”

“كوته نكنم زدامنت دست – ور خود بزني به تيغ تيزمبعد از تو ملاذ و ملجائي نيست – هم در تو گريزم از گريزم”

“I placed a jar in Tennessee and round it was upon a hill.”

“The yard was a little centre of regeneration. Here, with keen edges and smooth curves, were forms in the exact likeness of those he had seen abraded and time-eaten on the walls. These were the ideas in modern prose which the lichened colleges presented in old poetry. Even some of those antiques might have been called prose when they were new. They had done nothing but wait, and had become poetical. How easy to the smallest building; how impossible to most men.”

“The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.”

“O jornalista é um poeta delicado: sempre acha o rascunho mais sincero do que o publicado.”

“Many have referred to [Lewis] Carroll’s rhymes as nonsense, but in my childhood world — Los Angeles in the ’50s — they made perfect sense.”

“I suppose I’m saying that defiance is actually part of the lyric job”

“How can the confessor teach/ those who are lost and sick at heart,/ when he himself, among the sinners,/ is worst, and most forsaken?/ It is only a game we play/ with other people’s sins./ Besides, everyone knows/ that everyone lies confessing.”

“Yes, he is here in thisopen field, in sunlight, amongthe few young trees set outto modify the bare facts–he’s here, but onlybecause we are here.When we go, he goes with usto be your hands that neverdo violence, your eyesthat wonder, your livesthat daily praise lifeby living it, by laughter.He is never alone here,never cold in the field of graves.”

“… the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee grinder.”

“i have had my ups and downsbut wotthehell wotthehellyesterday sceptres and crownsfried oysters and velvet gownsand today i herd with bumsbut wotthehell wotthehelli wake the world from sleepas i caper and sing and leapwhen i sing my wild free tunewotthehell wotthehellunder the blear eyed mooni am pelted with cast off shoonbut wotthehell wotthehell”