Quotes About Poetry

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.

A rhapsody of words.

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind, Thou art not so unkind, as Man's Ingratitude...

Lucrece swears he did her wrong.

The green mantle of the standing pool.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet growsQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:There sleeps Titania some time of the night,Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,And call upon my soul within the house.

Lawn as white as driven snow.

I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale.

By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red:If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones.

Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThe very stones prate of my whereabout.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance.

Be thou the tenth Muse.

Death, death: O, amiable lovely death!

If I must die,I will encounter darkness as a bride,And hug it in my arms.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away...

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field.

O for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

Well-written words are music.