Quotes About Poetry

se misca precum un poem si zambea precum un sfinx

It's a blessing to die at the hand of someone beautiful

My father says most people who say they like poetry only pretend to like it.' 'I guess you like it?' 'I love it very much.' Her long hair swirled as she shook her head to correct herself. That's redundant. The word 'love' stands alone. 'Very much' only weakens it. I love words. Most people aren't very careful with them.

Emily Dickinson, one could be certain, didn't have silly friends. She didn't need them.

I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton.

Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which, who listens, had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears.

For it is through humility, he knew, that holiness--and poetry--find entrance to the human soul.

Avoid, which many grave men have not done, words taken from sacred subjects and from elevated poetry: these we have seen vilely prostituted. Avoid too the society of the barbarians who misemploy them.

Prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry: on the other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a moderate weight of prose ; and neither fan nor burned feather can bring her to herself again.

Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

Cheap little rhymes A cheap little tune Are sometimes as dangerous As a sliver of the moon.

Rest at pale evening... A tall slim tree... Night coming tenderly Black like me

I keep thinking about blood, I dream about it. Wake up thinking about it. Pretty soon I'll be writing morbid emo poetry about it.

One must always be careful of books,' said Tessa, 'and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us.' 'I'm not sure a book has ever changed me,' said Will. 'Well there is one volume that promises to teach one how to turn oneself into an entire flock of sheep-' 'Only the very weak minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry,' said Tessa, determined not to let him run wildly off with the conversation.

Atque in pepetuum, frater, ave atque vale," he whispered. The words of the poem had never seemed so fitting: Forever and ever, my brother, hail and farewell.

Will set his fork down and began cheerfully, in the manner of Edward Lear's Book of Nonsense: "There was once a lass from New York Who found herself hungry in York. But the bread was like rocks The parsnips shaped like -"

He found himself wanting to write poetry about how her blue eyes were like starlight and her hair like night, because "night" and "starlight" rhymed, but he had a feeling the poem wouldn't turn out that well...

Mark spoke like a poem and walked like a dance.

Eres como yo. Dices las cosas que pienso pero nunca digo en voz alta. Lees los libros que leo. Amas la poesía que yo amo. Me haces reír con tus canciones ridículas y la forma en que lo ves todo. Siento como si pudieras mirar dentro de mí y ver todos los lugares en los que soy extraña o inusual y adaptas tu corazón alrededor de ellos porque eres extraño e inusual de la misma forma. Somos lo mismo.

To witness means to decide to participate—not only with the head but with the heart—in the experience of another, an experience so painful that it must be shared in order to be confronted. Those in positions of power in our society have a tremendous ability to bring others from pain to possibility. And the beginning lies in poetry, for poetry provides distinctive access to pain. ?

The style in which I express myself, poetically, is one of appreciable literary inspiration.

I remember the morning you walked back from the sea, dirty trousers rolled, your feet pale as prisoners, poems and broken shells falling through a hole in your pocket. You stood for a moment and smiled at the gulls and it was as though the sun, the water, the day had conspired to put you back together again. I hope you walked into death as you did into that morning chasing a poem your step a little jaunty and your eyes full of the sea.

Chloe turned to Vetch. The poet said gently, "You see, you do have power. Words give you power, to create or destroy." His eyes flickered to Clare. "Even to forgive...

Greta, Greta, he whispered, eyes shut in rapture, on thy breast I write my Edda, at thy feet I lay the keys of Niflheim, by thy leave alone, I live, and breathe, and die.