Quotes About Poet

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.

There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that which I also had wellnigh thought and said.

The charming landscape which I saw this morning, is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their warranty-deeds give no title.

Poet To mask the fiery thought, in simple words succeeds. For still the craft of genius is, To mask a king in weeds

This relation between the mind and matter is not fancied by some poet, but stands in the will of God, and so is free to be known by all men.

There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all parts, that is, the poet.

So when the soul of the poet has come to ripeness of thought, she detaches and sends away from it its poems or songs,—a fearless, sleepless, deathless progeny, which is not exposed to the accidents of the weary kingdom of time: a fearless, vivacious offspring, clad with wings (such was the virtue of the soul out of which they came), which carry them fast and far, and infix them irrecoverably into the hearts of men. These wings are the beauty of the poet's soul.

Whilst thus the poet animates nature with his own thoughts, he differs from the philosopher only herein, that the one proposes Beauty as his main end; the other Truth.

We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet. Thus, in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament

One class live to the utility of the symbol, esteeming health and wealth a final good. Another class live above this mark to the beauty of the symbol, as the poet and artist and the naturalist and man of science. A third class live above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified; these are wise men.

When we speak of nature on this way, we have a awesome however maximum poetical experience within the thoughts. We suggest the integrity of influence made by means of manifold natural objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the timber-cutter, from the tree of the poet.

There is a property inside the horizon which no guy has but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, this is, the poet.

The condition of true naming, on the poet's part, is his resigning himself to the divine aura which breathes through forms, and accompanying that.

Capturing the beauty of the conversion of the water into wine, the poet Alexander Pope said, "The conscious water saw its Master and blushed.

It takes brains not to make money," Colonel Cargill wrote in one of the homiletic memoranda he regularly prepared for circulation over General Peckem's signature. "Any fool can make money these days and most of them do. But what about people with talent and brains? Name, for example, one poet who makes money.

I've been thinking of a poet who is dying in New York, how these days she reads her beloved Dante, perhaps looking for something to frame what is happening to her. And whom, I wonder, do I turn to? Whom in this century do I read as if my life depended upon it?

Lawrence is the supreme poet of Eros. No recriminations, no reproaches, no guilt, no 'morality'. For what's 'morality' but a leash around the neck? A noose? What's 'morality' but what other people want you to do, for their own, selfish, unstated purposes?

If poets often commit suicide, it is not because their poems are bad but because they are good. Whoever heard of a bad poet committing suicide? The reader is only a little better off. The exhilaration of a good poem lasts twenty minutes, an hour at most. Unlike the scientist, the artist has reentry problems that are frequent and catastrophic.

The poet makes himself into a visionary by a long derangement of all the senses.

But the poet interprets and rushes to the cosmic expression of his vision, as the clown covers his manhood and disguises his tragedy.

And at some immeasurably remote time beyond human caring the whole uneasy region might sink again beneath the sea and begin the cycle all over again by the slow deposition of new marls, shales, limestones, sandstones, deltaic conglomerates, perhaps with a fossil poet pressed and silicified between the leaves of rock. It

The poet is priest of the invisible.

What makes the poet the potent figure that he is, or was, or ought to be, is that he creates the world to which we turn incessantly and without knowing it and that he gives to life the supreme fictions without which we are unable to conceive of it.

Torn by dreams,By the terrible incantations of defeatsAnd by the fear that defeats and dreamsare one.The whole race is a poet that writes downThe eccentric propositions of its fate.