Quotes About Poetry

Poetry for me has been a long pilgrimage, a journey and a growing relationship with the unknown.

Well, if this is poetry, it is very easy to write.

You can't lead bunny lives and write tiger poetry.

Who writes poetry imbibes honey from the poisoned lips of life.

Tomorrow is Saint Valentines day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.

He makes a swan-like end, fading in music.

Shall i compare thee to a summers day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate

Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,And leave them honeyless.

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,Liege of all loiters and malcontents.

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow;Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,Sing willow, willow, willow.

But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad,Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chalic'd flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty is,My lady sweet, arise.

William Shakespeare

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light.

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Mincing poetry:'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew,Than one of these same meter ballad-mongers.

Yesterday the bird of night did sit,Even at noonday, upon the marketplace,Hooting and shrieking.

From the east to western Ind,No jewel is like Rosalind.

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

When daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo;Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!

An honour! were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat

I love a ballad in print, a-life, for then we are sure they are true.