All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“SolitudeThere is a charm in Solitude that cheersA feeling that the world knows nothing ofA green delight the wounded mind endearsAfter the hustling world is broken offWhose whole delight was crime at good to scoffGreen solitude his prison pleasure yieldsThe bitch fox heeds him not — birds seem to laughHe lives the Crusoe of his lonely fieldsWhich dark green oaks his noontide leisure shields”

“When a group of people get up from a table, the table doesn’tknow which way any of them will go.”

“And here, in thought, to thee-In thought that can alone, Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne, By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven.”

“To Lucasta, Going to the Wars Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.”

“I can’t even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.”

“There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric….But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art–he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.”

“One breath taken completely; one poem, fully written, fully read – in such a moment, anything can happen.”

“I now wish that I had spent somewhat more of my life with verse. This is not because I fear having missed out on truths that are incapable of statement in prose. There are no such truths; there is nothing about death that Swinburne and Landor knew but Epicurus and Heidegger failed to grasp. Rather, it is because I would have lived more fully if I had been able to rattle off more old chestnuts — just as I would have if I had made more close friends.”

“Four billion people on this earthbut my imagination is still the same.It’s bad with large numbers.It’s still taken by particularity.It flits in the dark like a flashlight,illuminating only random faceswhile all the rest go by,never coming to mind and never really missed.”

“it’s so easy to be a poetand so hard to be a man.”

“EndymionThe rising moon has hid the stars;Her level rays, like golden bars,Lie on the landscape green,With shadows brown between.And silver white the river gleams,As if Diana, in her dreams,Had dropt her silver bowUpon the meadows low.On such a tranquil night as this,She woke Endymion with a kiss,When, sleeping in the grove,He dreamed not of her love.Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought,Love gives itself, but is not bought;Nor voice, nor sound betraysIts deep, impassioned gaze.It comes,–the beautiful, the free,The crown of all humanity,–In silence and aloneTo seek the elected one.It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deepAre Life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep,And kisses the closed eyesOf him, who slumbering lies.O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!O drooping souls, whose destiniesAre fraught with fear and pain,Ye shall be loved again!No one is so accursed by fate,No one so utterly desolate,But some heart, though unknown,Responds unto his own.Responds,–as if with unseen wings,An angel touched its quivering strings;And whispers, in its song,”Where hast thou stayed so long?”

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.”

“depth and substance.the two most exquisite qualities. be it in a poemor a person.”

“THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.”

“For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia’s armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.”