Quotes About Poetry

furor poeticus

My father had wanted to name me for Dylan Thomas. He had seen him speak on one of those drunken poetry tours he did.

Belonging to the world of poetry,but fascinated by another world, she is always stretching out from her enchanted tree and snatching bits from the flux of daily life as they float past, and out of these bits she builds novels.

"My name is Margalo," said the bird, softly, in a musical voice. "I come from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; I come from vales of meadowsweet, and I love to whistle."

A poet dares be just so clear and no clearer.... He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

A poet's pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it.

(So,when kiss Spring comes we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss lips because tic clocks toc don't make a toctic difference to kisskiss you and to kiss me)

All in green went my love ridingon a great horse of goldinto the silver dawn.

It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted—Balder, Persephone—but [in India] the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them.

I am the means and not the end. I am the food and not the life. Stand by yourself, as that boy has stood. I cannot save you. For poetry is a spirit; and they that would worship it must worship in spirit and in truth.

O whitest so soft parchment where My poor divorced lips have written excellent Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more.

Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.

Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine arts; the easiest to dabble in, the hardest to reach true perfection.

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

O que torna os maus poetas ainda piores é o facto de apenas lerem poetas (tal como os maus filósofos apenas lêem filósofos), quando eles tirariam um proveito bem maior de um livro de botânica ou de geologia. Só nos enriquecemos se frequentarmos disciplinas afastadas da nossa. Isto só é verdade, claro está, nos domínios em que grassa o eu.

It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly.

He stretched out his hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad…The poem had done no 'good' to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved.

Let us discuss why poetry has lost the power of making men brave.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

The Waves is an extraordinary achievement ... It is trembling on the edge. A little less - and it would lose its poetry. A little more - and it would be over into the abyss, and be dull and arty. It is her greatest book.

Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form...

He loved poetry--science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress...