Quotes About Poetry

It's not to be expected that an ox and an ass should worship at the crib. Animals are always doing the oddest things in the lives of the saints. It's all part of the poetry, the Alice-In-Wonderland side of religion.

this midnight my desire will see, shadowed among the embers, furled in flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world

I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry.

I'll never be a poet,' said Amory as he finished. 'I'm not enough of a sensualist really; there are only a few obvious things that I notice as primarily beautiful: women, spring evenings, music at night, the sea; I don't catch the subtle things like 'silver-snarling trumpets.' I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never right anything but mediocre poetry.

Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner or later.

Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain.

Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner or later. For instance, the beautiful word, the colored and glittering word, and the beautiful simile belong in prose now. To get attention poetry has got to strain for the unusual word, the harsh, earthy word that's never been beautiful before.

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you - like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist - or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

If human beings could communicate in mathematical language -- which is more poetical than any other language -- the world would be an easier place to live. Perhaps one day we will follow Nature's example, for her immense book is written in mathematical language, as Galileo has affirmed.

hana no kage / aka no tanin wa / nakari keri Under cherry-flowers, None are utter strangers.

Sir George Sansom (1883–1965) defined them as "little drops of poetic essence.

sakura saku koro / tori ashi nihon / uma shihon2 When cherry trees bloom birds have two legs horses four

Harold Henderson (1889–1974), who made haiku a part of our own literature, dubbed them "meditations . . . starting points for trains of thought." R. H. Blyth (1898–1964), who published six volumes of haiku translations, made the extravagant claim that "Japanese literature stands or falls by haiku.

koe nakaba / sagi koso yuki no / hitotsurane4 If only noiseless they would go, The herons flying by Were but a line of snow Across the sky CHP

If only noiseless they would go, The herons flying by Were but a line of snow Across the sky

a flying squirrel sits chewing on a bird withered field (Yosa Buson`s farewell haiku)

As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don't know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).

I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.

Perhaps it's my destiny to remain a book-keeper for ever and for poetry and literature to remain simply butterflies that alight on my head and merely underline my own ridiculousness by their very beauty.

Perhaps it's my destiny to remain a bookkeeper forever, and for poetry and literature to remain simply butterflies that alight on my head and underline my own ridiculousness by their very beauty. In the future I'll be living quietly in a little house somewhere, enjoying a peaceful existence not writing the book I'm not writing now and, so as to continue not doing so, I will use different excuses to the ones I use now to avoid actually confronting myself.

I've never aspired to be more than a dreamer. I paid no attention to those who spoke to me of living. I've always belonged to what isn't where I am and to what I could never be. Whatever isn't mine, no matter how base, has always had poetry for me.

I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry.

Perhaps it's my destiny to remain a book-keeper for ever and for poetry and literature to remain simply butterflies that alight on my head and merely underline my own ridiculousness by their very beauty.