Quotes About Poet

As the poet says, all happy couples are alike, it's the unhappy ones who create the stories. I'm no longer a story. Happiness has made me fade into real life.

In the line of Emerson and Whitman, Phelps strongly asserts the need for the poet to listen, to feel, to touch, to learn to see. Love is a magician, it is Merlin. It changes the drabness of everyday, unfetters the soul and the imagination, transcends reality. It is an escape from the self... ethereal butterflies alight gently on the very essence of the feeling.

Sweet October, fill with praise, Rich and glowing as thy days, Every poet's heartfelt lays.

A poet is too impatient for prose. He needs an expressway to his emotions.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion — a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that condition by fits only.

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads to madness. The poet is the Pandora of the mind.

The stereotype is that a poet shoots his load at 25 years old and goes around the rest of his life doddering.

A poet cannot stop writing poems — an ink-stained soul compels his obsession.

The want of logic annoys. Too much logic bores. Life eludes logic, and everything that logic alone constructs remains artificial and forced. Therefore is a word the poet must not know, which exists only in the mind.

If a poet writes in gibberish, his soul yet understands.

The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs which they have smothered and forgotten.

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.

A poet is a reporter, interviewing his own heart.

A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. The love of language is either itself a poetic gift or a symptom of it.

A poet is a flaming phoenix — burnt up with each and every poem.

A poet trains himself to stand out in a storm and be struck by lightning. If he is lucky enough to be struck six times, he becomes immortal. Randall Jarrell said it, and he's right.

A poet is a storm with a pen — splattering swashes of ink across the sky in bursts of fervor with words on fire whirling tempest-emblazoned rhyme

A poet is a lone wolf howling soul at impossible questions— Poetry is the answer.

And the poet out-argues Nature.

The gaze of nature, when thus awakened, dreams and pulls the poet after its dream. Words, too, can have an aura of their own.

To thee Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown, From out another worldflower lately flown. Wilt ask, What profit e'er a poet brings? He beareth starry stuff about his wings...

Winter surfaces in the poet by late summer, and spring is already in his inkpot with the first snow.

A poet builds his nest in the springtime tree of wild reverie, and ends up staying the year.

...the swirling autumn leaves of a poet's dying words...