Quotes About Poetry

A poet dips words into springtime to season her poems with beauty.

Arteries are the body's thundering poetry.

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known... And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

Now rising you may see with naked eye The brilliant Star in Corde Scorpii, Whose changing colours on a Summer's night, When culminating, shine so clear and bright, And twinkling change with red and silver light.

How do you approach the wheel of time — do you ride her stick your foot in her gears ignore her slow grinding write poems of her elusive movement sync yourself with her dance or cry out in the cold night of her injustice & indifference?

Mountains suggest pine-trees, the aboriginal, and let us hope, the never-to-be-exterminated dwellers upon their slopes... if ever our pine-forests are destroyed, the North will have lost the deepest intonation of its outdoor poetry. For the leaves of the pine are harp-strings played upon by the viewless presences of the air...

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

the moon and plum tree make flow'ry springtime shadows— lovers of the night

Ripe 'sparagrass, Fit for lad or lass, To make their water pass: O, 'tis pretty picking With a tender chicken!

Verses of veggies poems of fruit dotted with seeds raw green rhymes in melodious bodies

I swim down through liquid green heavens, down through the poem of the sea.

A vineyard is planted poetry.

I really would like to stop working forever — never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I'm doing now — and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends... Just a literary and quiet city-hermit existence.

Some writers have beautiful poetry inside that explodes from the pen into prose. Others hold their inner prose until it implodes to poetry.

I am a very particular person about having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse. A misprint kills a sensitive author. An intentional change of his text murders him. No wonder so many poets die young!

Poetry wrapped around my heart like a cozy blanket Quills in my brain ink running through gray matter rivulets Dead authors ghosting through my soul...

The best writers always make poetry, whether it comes out prose or verse.

He transforms every bottle of ink into a scrolling trail of metaphors.

Love letters and poems aren't the least bit difficult to write, if you write directly from your heart into the ink and don't channel through your brain first.

Old Custom says, that rhyming words Must form the Valentine; Yet jingling verse but ill accords With sentiments like mine...

As a child she'd kept a copy of Evangeline in her pocket. She'd go down by the riverside and read it until she cried her eyes out... She thought the two words — primeval forest — that's often in that book, were the two most beautiful words in the English language.

Stars encircle me when your lips lean down to mine, there is the sound of many waters falling. There is the murmur of a million nightingales, — and the flash of brilliant lightning.

To the daisy — the poet's darling.

There are no mute, inglorious Miltons, save in the hallucinations of poets. The one sound test of a Milton is that he functions as a Milton.