Quotes About Poetry

Descending to the earth, that strange intoxicating beauty of the unseen world, lurks in the elements of Nature. And the soul of man, who has attained the rightful balance, becoming aware of this hidden joy, straight away is enamoured and bewitched. And from this mystic marriage are born the poets' songs, inner knowledge, the language of the heart, virtuous living, and the fair child beauty. And the Great Soul gives to man as dowry, the hidden glory of the world.

Those fools, the poets, compare a girl in the bloom of youth to a flower. But that's not right; flowers are too tough. A soap bubble would be better. A thing of wonder, too fragile to exist.

Music is more emotional than prose, more revolutionary than poetry. I'm not saying I've got the answers, just a of questions that I don't hear other artists asking.

It is from the ranks of the neo-intellectuals that we develop our parlor socialists, our "modernists" in poetry and letters, and those arm-chair anarchists who have theoretical explanations for every circumstance of living. The Mercurial person must take careful stock of himself and make sure that he contributes nothing to the inanities of the day.

only poetry could best fit into the vast emptiness created by men.

Appoggiata alla mia spalla sei la mia ala destra. Come se tu spiegassi le tue tenere nere penne, m'innalzan le tue parole a un candidissimo cielo. Esultanza. Silenzio. Seduto ora al mio tavolo, mi sanguina la spalla, la tua assenza mi duole.

Desencanto Eu faço versos como quem chora De desalento... de desencanto... Fecha o meu livro, se por agora Não tens motivo nenhum de pranto. Meu verso é sangue. Volúpia ardente... Tristeza esparsa... remorso vão... Dói-me nas veias. Amargo e quente, Cai, gota a gota, do coração. E nestes versos de angústia rouca Assim dos lábios a vida corre, Deixando um acre sabor na boca. - Eu faço versos como quem morre.

Eu faço versos como quem morre.

I like the beauty of Faulkner's poetry. But I don't like his themes, not at all.

La cultura, señores! Y dentro de ella, la más sublime de las artes. La poesía.

Let us guard against stripping our science of its share of poetry.

They spend most evenings at home gathered around the family hearth listening to Louis either singing, reading from Dom Guéranger's The Liturgical Year, or reciting "...from memory long passages [of poetry] principally from Lamartine and Victor Hugo.

I will have poetry in my life. And adventure. And love. Love above all. No... not the artful postures of love, not playful and poetical games of love for the amusement of an evening, but love that... overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable - like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture.

I - will have poetry in my life. And adventure. And love. Love above all.

William Shakespeare: My muse, as always, is Aphrodite. Philip Henslowe: Aphrodite Baggett, who does it behind the Dog and Crumpet?

Les mots qui ont un son noble contiennent toujours de belles images.

My mother had to abandon her quest, but managed to extract from the restriction itself a further delicate thought, like good poets whom the tyranny of rhyme forces into the discovery of their finest lines.

All the products of one period have something in common; the artists who illustrate the poetry of their generation are the same artists who are employed by the big financial houses. And nothing reminds me so much of the monthly parts of Notre-Dame de Paris, and of various books by Gérard de Nerval, that used to hang outside the grocer's door at Combray, than does, in its rectangular and flowery border, supported by recumbent river-gods, a 'personal share' in the Water Company.

La mayoría de las personas que conocemos no nos inspiran más que indiferencia; de modo que cuando en un ser depositamos grandes posibilidades de pena o de alegría para nuestro corazón, se nos figura que pertenece a otro mundo, se envuelve en poesía, convierte nuestra vida en una gran llanura donde nosotros no apreciamos más que la distancia que de él nos separa.

Pero de pronto lo recordé, las irreductibles asperezas de un mundo inhumano se aniquilaron mágicamente; las sílabas del verso llenaron luego la medida de un alejandrino; lo que el verso tenía de sobra se desprendió con tanta facilidad y tan ágilmente como una pompa de aire que sale a estallar a la superficie del agua. Y, en efecto, aquella enormidad con que yo había luchado no era más que una sola sílaba.

she exclaimed, the innate respectability of the middle-class housewife rising impulsively to the surface through the acquired dilettantism of the 'light woman.' People who enjoyed 'picking-up' things, who admired poetry, despised sordid calculations of profit and loss, and nourished ideals of honour and love, she placed in a class by themselves, superior to the rest of humanity.

My mother had to abandon the quest, but managed to extract from the restriction itself a further refinement of thought, as great poets do when the tyranny of rhyme forces them into the discovery of their finest lines.

Like an inspired and prolific poet, who never refuses to spread beauty to the humblest places, which until now did not seem to share the domain of art, the sun still warmed the bountiful energy of the dung heap, of the unevenly paved yard, and of the pear tree worn down like an old serving maid.

Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is,.....