Quotes About Imagination

The Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

Imagining in excited reverieThat the future years had come,Dancing to a frenzied drum,Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

My temptation is quiet.Here at life's endNeither loose imagination,Nor the mill of the mindConsuming its rag and bone,Can make the truth known.

People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.

The living can assist the imagination of the dead...

But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.

Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

Lui qui aurait voulu pouvoir offrir le ciel Si je pouvais t'offrir le bleu secret du ciel Brodé de lumière d'or et de reflets d'argents Le mystérieux secret, le secret éternel De la nuit et du jour, de la vie et du temps Avec tout mon amour je le mettrais à tes pieds Mais tu sais je suis pauvre et je n'ai que mes rêves Alors c'est de mes rêves qu'il faut te contenter Marche doucement, car tu marches sur mes rêves

Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

In dreams begin responsibilities.

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

If you haven't got an idea, start a story anyway. You can always throw it away, and maybe by the time you get to the fourth page you will have an idea, and you'll only have to throw away the first three pages.

[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.

By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.

Young children are developing more of an artistic orientation, and the orientation they develop is so naturally graceful and lively that many great artists have said that they constantly try to recapture it.

It seemed impossible to imagine that a single London corporation, however ruthless and aggressive, could have conquered a Mughal