Quotes About Poetry

Since you can never be my bride, My tree at least you shall be! Let the laurel Adorn, henceforth, my hair, my lyre, my quiver: Let Roman victors, in the long procession, Wear laurel wreaths for triumph and ovation.

My mind leads me to speak now of forms changed into new bodies: O gods above, inspire this undertaking (which you've changed as well) and guide my poem in its epic sweep from the world's beginning to the present day. The

I prate of ancient poets' monstrous lies, Ne'er seen or now or then by human eyes.

All that remained of Daphne was her shining loveliness

Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua. — Venus & Adonis, May 1593

Lesbia quid docuit Sappho nisi amare puellas?

The unpleasant, acrid smell of burnt poetry.

Check it out-this is a copy of a painting of a Greek High Priestess named Calliope. it says she was also the Poet Laureate after Sappho. Doesn't she look exactly like Cher?' Wow, that's insane. She does look just like young Cher,' Erin said. Yeah, before she started wearing those white wigs. What the hell's up with that?' Shaunee said. Damien gave the Twins a look. 'There is nothing wrong with Cher. Absolutely. Nothing.' Uh-oh,' Shaunee said. Stepped on a gay nerve,' Erin agreed.

Aye, wumman, if it's truly romantic, then it must be Scottish

I don't want to wrong anybody, so I won't go so far as to say that she actually wrote poetry, but her conversation, to my mind, was of a nature calculated to excite the liveliest of suspicions. Well, I mean to say, when a girl suddenly asks you out of a blue sky if you don't sometimes feel that the stars are God's daisy-chain, you begin to think a bit.

Just as you say, sir. There is a letter on the tray, sir. By Jove, Jeeves, that was practically potry. Rhymed, did you notice?

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

Sheh walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes. Another bit of bread and cheese, he said to the lad behind the bar.

I could make a poet out of far less promising material. I could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange peel.

Just as you say, sir. There is a letter on the tray, sir." "By Jove, Jeeves, that was practically poetry. Rhymed, did you notice?

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness And the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar.

Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.

Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.

I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop...