Quotes About Poetry

And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water; the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar'd all description.

So. Lie there, my art.

On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily.

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, and they shall live, and he in them still green.

Juliet is the east and i am the sun.

I might call him. A thing divine, for nothing natural. I ever saw so noble.

All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being governed by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry

His silver skin laced with his golden blood.

Fare thee well/ A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

He kiss'd, –the last of many doubled kisses, –this orient pearl.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Pero, alto. ¿Qué luz alumbra esa ventana? Es el oriente, y Julieta, el sol. Sal, bello sol, y mata a la luna envidiosa, que está enferma y pálida de pena porque tú, que la sirves, eres más hermoso.

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'this poet lies! Such heaven never touched earthly faces

The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be Doth dwell.

O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet

William Shakespeare

A spirit I am indeed,   But am in that dimension grossly clad   Which from the womb I did participate.   Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,   I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,   And say, 'Thrice welcome, drownèd Viola.

I was not born under a rhyming planet. . . .