Quotes About Poetry

One simile that solitary shinesIn the dry desert of a thousand lines.

Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,The last and greatest art—the art to blot.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense;The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain?

Oh name forever sad! forever dear!Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad,It is not poetry, but prose run mad.

Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.

She sins with poets through pure love of wit

Ye sacred nine

But now secure the painted vessel glides,   The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides:   While melting music steals upon the sky,   And soften'd sounds along the waters die; 50   Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,   Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.

The illness with which he'd been smittenshould have been analyzed when caught,something like spleen, that scourge of Britain,or Russia's chondria, for short.

Ama Kardinal Hazretleri, izin verirseniz söyleyeyim. Biz, öteki ressamlar ellerimizle konu?uruz... - Olmad?, diyerek araya girdi yeniden Arezzo Piskoposu, kafayla konu?uyorsunuz... Alg? yoksa, dü?ünce de yoktur, görüntü de yok. Hatta ayn? ?ekilde, ?iir, konu?an resimdir... Resimse, Senyör Orazio, sessiz ?iirdir.

But later in high school she became both bored and confused. Bored at the trivia she was taught and confused by the inconsistencies of the teachers who taught it. She wanted to learn how to deal with reality and evaluate it objectively, how to think. She was taught that language has no meaning, poetry needs no structure, and philosophy is fine in theory but useless in practice.

'Tis true among fields and woods I sing, Aloof from cities--that my poor strains Were born, like the simple flowers you bring, In English meadows and English lanes.

Poetry is the subject at present of much prose criticism, prose exposition, and prose controversy; but the controversialists are largely the poets themselves, or those who aspire to the title. The subject is treated by them with much earnestness, indeed with some little heat; and it is easy to perceive that the main object of most of the disputants is to establish the superiority of the poet whom the critic himself most admires, and possibly whom he himself most resembles.

Imagination in poetry, as distinguished from mere fancy is the transfiguring of the real or actual to the ideal.

Never did form more fairy thread the dance Than she who scours the hills to find it flowers; Never did sweeter lips chained ears entrance Than hers that move, true to its striking hours; No hands so white e'er decked the warrior's lance, As those which tend its lamp as darkness lours; And never since dear Christ expired for man, Had holy shrine so fair a sacristan.

Surely music is not only the food of love, but of poetry as well.

For great poetry, as Wordsworth teaches us in a single line, is not mere emotion, not mere subtle or sensuous singing, but "Reason in her most exalted mood."

In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.

Realism, unadulterated Realism, which is a dangerous experiment in prose, is a sheer impossibility in poetry; for in poetry what is offered us, and what delights us, is not realistic but ideal representation. No doubt the very music of verse is part of the means whereby this ideal representation is effected; but it will not of itself suffice, as may easily be proved by reciting mere nonsense verses in which the rhythm or music may be faultless.

Sheer lyricism just now is overmuch the mode. It is all very nice and pleasant in its way, and within bounds, but one can have too much of a good thing, and one does not want poetry to become vox et præterea nihil. It is a fashion, doubtless, that will pass.

It is the business of poets to deal with the relation of the individual to himself, to the silent uniform forces of nature, and to other individuals, singly and collectively: in other words, to be dramatic or epic, as well as lyrical or idyllic.

Most patriotic verse, however spirited, is verse only, nothing or little more.