Quotes About Poetry

All men owe honor to the poets - honor and awe; for they are dearest to the Muse who puts upon their lips the ways of life.

Neither men, nor gods, nor booksellers' shelves permit ordinary poets to exist. [Lat., Mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae.]

Poets are never allowed to be mediocre by the gods, by men or by publishers.

The man is either crazy or he is a poet.

Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.

So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.

There's a crystallization that goes on in a poem which the young man can bring off, but which the middle-aged man can't.

If from poetry we expect a succession of signals for the release of miscellaneous private emotion we are likely to find Tears, Idle Tears valuable.

If I say to the moment: 'Stay now! You are so beautiful'!

Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.

The owl and the pussycat went to sea, / In a beautiful pea green boat. / They took some honey, and plenty of money, / Wrapped up in a five pound note.

Thinking in its lower grades, is comparable to paper money, and in its higher forms it is a kind of poetry.

There ain't no money in poetry, that's what keeps the poet free. I've had all the freedom I can stand.

There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money.

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

What's the use of writing poetry for your peers? I don't think I should sell my poetry to other poets. If that's who my audience is, I'm dead, I'm not going to make any money.

If there's no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money.

When poetry is on the money, 12 words can slay you. I admire that greatly.

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

To feel keenly the poetry of a morning's roses, one has to have just escaped from the claws of this vulture which we call sickness.

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.

You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.