Quotes About Poetry

Nec si quot placidis ignea noctibus Scintillant tacito sydera culmine, Nec si quot tepidum flante Favonio Ver suffundit humo rosas, Tot sint ora mihi...

Oh there once was a woman and she kept a shop selling trinkets to tourists not far from a dock who came to see what life could be far back on the island. And it was always a party there always different but very nice New friends to give you advice or fall in love with you which is nice and each grew so perfectly from the other it was a marvel of poetry and irony

He had a special fondness for the moving parts of women, their wrists, their butterfly-shaped ankles, their shoulder blades like a swan's folded wings. In particular he treasured their knees, especially the back of them, where the skin was pale, milk-blue, with delicate fissures, little fine cracks, as in the most fragile old pieces of bone china. — John Banville, April in Spain (Hanover Square Press, 2021)

When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze and touches with her hand the summer trees….' That's poetry. And 'Like painted kites the days and nights went flying by. The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky.

These Songs are not meant to be understood, you understand. They are only meant to terrify & comfort.

Listen, for poets are feigned to lie, and I For you a liar am a thousand times . . . .

And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

You know, Emily Dickinson is here too. All she does is write poems about life all the time. The irony! She keeps asking me to read them. I refuse, of course. The days are long enough as it is.

This is all a tale of an older world and a forgotten countryside. At this moment of time change has come; a screaming line of steel runs through the heather of no-man's-land, and the holiday-maker claims the valleys for his own. But this busyness is but of yesterday, and not ten years ago the fields lay quiet to the gaze of placid beasts and the wandering stars. This story I have culled from the grave of an old fashion, and set down for the love of a great soul and the poetry of life.

I have been told that, when you can adequately formulate a grief, you have removed half the sting of it, and I fancy that in the case of the pleasing emotions the same explication doubles the pleasure. That is the virtue of the poets, since they do for the ordinary man what he cannot do for himself.

He might have been compared to a summer's day, particularly the last hours of one.

Few pay attention to the histories and the root pictures words can release. These neglected qualities are there, however, and the poets have always found them a self-delighting source of excitement.

It was as if cowslips and cow-droppings mingled with sea-horses and cowry-shells.

Roses are red, violets are blue. If your man is busy on Valentines Day, then the side chick is you.

Real friendship, like real poetry, is extremely rare - and precious as a pearl.

Science arose from poetry... when times change the two can meet again on a higher level as friends.

Roses are red; Violets are blue; nothing in this crazy world could keep me from loving you!

Poetry is worship...Stretching my soul, opening my heart and touching every part of my being. Poetry is worship to me!

For five hundred years after Walther's death - until Goethe - no German lyric poet was his equal.

I believe the death of Bobby Kennedy was in many ways the death of decency in America. I think it was the death of manners and formality, the death of poetry and the death of a dream.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

Poets are interested primarily in death and commas.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

What kind of dark, twisted mind preys on young women? I think it was Poe that said the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical thing in the universe, and if that was true… I was John Milton.