Quotes About Poets

I love men. I've always been drawn to poets, artists, and madmen. Sometimes all three in one

Jack had wondered how geometers could be so inventive as to produce so many types and families of curves. Later he had come to perceive that of curves there was no end, and the true miracle was that poets, or writers, or whoever it was that was in charge of devising new words, could keep pace with those hectic geometers, and slap names on all the whorls and snarls in the pages of the Doctor's geometry-books.

We embark on this quest not from a simple desire, but from a mandate of our species to search for our place in the cosmos. The quest is old, not new. And has garnered the attention of thinkers great and small, across time and across culture. What we have discovered, the poets have known all along.

Poets knew that isolation in nature, far from people and things man-made, was good for the soul, and he'd always identified with poets.

This perpetual fear, always accompanying mankind in the ignorance of causes, as it were in the dark, must needs have for object something. And therefore when there is nothing to be seen, there is nothing to accuse, either of their good, or evil fortune, but some power, or agent invisible: in which sense perhaps it was, that some of the old poets said, that the gods were at first created by human fear: which spoken of the gods, that is to say, of the many gods of the Gentiles, is very true.

The poets did not win; the philosophers surrendered.

hay dos clases de poetas: los buenos, que queman sus poemas a los dieciocho años, y los malos, que siguen escribiendo poesía mientras

I find that all the fair and noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets and the agonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service of organized and predatory Greed!

her nose was not handsome— it was pretty; neither straight nor curved, neither Italian nor Greek; it was the Parisian nose, that is to say, spiritual, delicate, irregular, pure,—which drives painters to despair, and charms poets.

True love is a rare thing. We lean on it for years without botherin' to look at what's holdin' us up. It lasts forever, as the poets say, but life doesn't.

Burton makes it quite clear that the 'distinguished' nature of melancholy makes it superior to other forms of madness, as evidence of a refined nature. It is melancholy, after all, which afflicts scholars and poets: 'Melancholy men of all others are most witty.'32 Despite the drawbacks of the condition, his ambivalent attitude prefigures that of many modern depressives, who regard the disease as an essential component of their character, even their creativity.

Where are the leaders?' Sapphique asked. 'In the fortresses,' the swan replied. 'And the poets?' 'Lost in dreams of other worlds.' 'And the craftsmen?' 'Forging machines to challenge the darkness.' 'And the Wise, who made the world?' The swan lowered its black neck sadly. 'Dwindled to crones and sorcerers in towers.

We are chained hand and foot by protocol, enslaved to a static, empty world where men and women can't read, where the scientific advances of the ages are the preserve of the rich, where artists and poets are doomed to endless repetitions and sterile reworking of past masterpieces. Nothing is new. New does not exist. Nothing changes, nothing grows, evolves, develops. Time has stopped. Progress is forbidden

And the poets?' 'Lost in dreams of other worlds.'... 'And the wise, who made this world?' The swan lowered its black neck sadly. 'Dwindled to crones and sorcerers in towers.

poets today have no other readers but persons who are educated and informed," but unfortunately "[t]oday every educated and informed man is unfailingly egoistic and philosophical, deprived of every noteworthy illusion, devoid of intense passions, and every woman likewise" (Z 2944–45).

If they have a dull wit, let them not reproach the poets for their indolence, nor insist against them with frivolous barks.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze...

Autumn leaves Poets breathless

They will blame me. That is the risk poets take when we exaggerate for the sake of effect, which is what we do. And believe me, there are many who agree with the sentiment.

Amid the horrors of war, the poets seldom saw fit to mention the deadly tedium.

The poets, by which I mean all artists, are finally the only people that know the truth about us. Soldiers don't, statesmen don't, priests don't, union leaders don't…only the poets.

Hah, all we poets write a deal about love: but none of us may grasp the word's full meaning until he reflects that this is a passion mighty enough to induce a woman to put up with him.

Friend, I am grieved when I find a venator or hunter of your experience and observation, following the current of vulgar error. The animal you describe, is in truth a species of the bos ferus or bos sylvestris, as he has been happily called by the poets, but, though of close affinity it is altogether distinct, from the common Bubulus. Bison is the better word, and I would suggest the necessity of adopting it in the future, when you shall have occasion to allude to the species.

Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.