Quotes About Poetry

To prove to you that I who 'used to care' for poetry do so still, and that I have not been absolutely idle lately, an 'Athenaeum' shall be sent to you containing a poem on the subject of the removal of Napoleon's ashes. It is a fitter subject for you than for me. Napoleon is no idol of mine. I never made a 'setting sun' of him.

Only more cat-shaped. (Jeoffry, a poet's cat, has ignored vast amounts of Milton over the years, but some of it has apparently stuck.)

There," Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface the Darkling Glass. "There's is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette." "Not mine, surely.

He only cared about his own poetry.

His name flew from her lips as if on the wings of a swan.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the poetry as he leaned into the cloths that bound him, and his lips moved slightly.

Nothing could touch Will in the void: he knew somehow that he needed poetry, needed the power of his words, but in his jumbled consciousness he could not put one line of a poem with another.

Poetry, he realized, in watching Will's face. A furious brightness sparked in Kit's breast, equal parts pride and fury. Even now, he comes back with poetry.

The bruises under her eyes are dark enough for Min-xue to dip his brush in and write poetry.

He thought of Muire quoting poetry in the darkness, his own flip dismissal of the religion behind it, her pursuit of the Grey Wolf. He thought of the sword in her hand, and shook his head and snorted through his nose. Ridiculous. Ridiculous to imagine. The more ridiculous because he suspected he was right.

I had a theory at that time that one should write down all one's dreams. That that was the way to write poetry. So I kept a notebook of my dreams and thought if you ate a lot of awful cheese at bedtime you'd have interesting dreams. I went to Vassar with a pot about this big--it did have a cover!--of Roquefort cheese that I kept in the bottom of my bookcase . . . I think everyone's given to eccentricities at that age. I've heard that at Oxford Auden slept with a revolver under his pillow.

You can't derange, or rearrange, your poems again. (But the sparrows can their song.) The words won't change again. Sad friend, you cannot change.

Where they were concerned, the ban, the check, the caution as to all spending and most of all the expenditure of feeling restricted them. Wariness had driven away poetry: from hesitating to feel came the moment you no longer could.

I often ask the question: Is it impossible to have a simple life? The world is not simple, Claire said. The world is not simple. Joe repeated the phrase like the line of a great poem.

Her hair gives dawn it's fire, her eyes give dusk her soul" He knew how to use his voice to melt a girl's heart, to make a girl want to believe. I steeled myself against the seductive words. "Excuse me?" "It's a line of poetry describing a beautiful girl, one who doesn't seem to know it.

Mordecai allowed a smile to play across his face. "I have little doubt this ploy will try your patience. You must present Sir Percival as a gallant knight well-versed in chivalry and a favored champion in the tourneys. Perhaps a bit of poetry would be in order as well." Dante rolled his eyes and sighed. "I shall be the very picture of chivalrous drivel.

What in the world was she saying? Not what she ought to be saying. She was repeating the verse of some old Elizabethan poet whom she had read in the days when she had been a cultured young woman of the world who had prided herself upon her cosmopolitan reading. Yes, she had been young once, young and beautiful—and warm. And now

For me, poetry is always a search for order.

Poetry first introduced me to the concept that pain could, perhaps, be viewed as 'the pain' and not 'my pain.' That sorrow and loneliness and abandonment were the human condition, not my sole possession

I've read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn't, since hers was simply a companion to my own.

A midnight breeze fluttered the aspens and shimmered through the moon-silvered willows along the creek. Clouds billowed across the sky, veiling the stars as they passed." "Her lips were like the petals of a storm-blown rose, cool and soft and yielding.

I have come to trust the power of a few well-chosen words to reveal to the world something I cannot say, or don't want to say, or didn't even know I needed to say until I saw it spelled out in front of me in the prophetic hand of the poet.

But a library is a gorgeous language that you will never speak fluently. You will try every day of your life. Order is a certain clumsy grammar, a mnemonic device. Order just means: try to use verbs. Consider the tense. The poetry will follow.

Poetry, architecture, music, philosophy and mathematics all intrigued him and he was patron of them all, surrounding himself with men of genius: the poet and satirist Juvenal, the architect Apollodorus, the historians Tacitus, Suetonius and Arrian, the writers Pliny the Younger, Pausanias and Plutarch.