Quotes About Poetry

II pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville. NÆ¡i tim Ä'ây n?c n?, nhÆ° thành ph? mÆ°a rÆ¡i...

Ariette III Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville ; Quelle est cette langueur Qui pénètre mon coeur ? Ô bruit doux de la pluie Par terre et sur les toits ! Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie, Ô le chant de la pluie ! Il pleure sans raison Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure. Quoi ! nulle trahison ? Ce deuil est sans raison. C'est bien la pire peine De ne savoir pourquoi Sans amour et sans haine Mon coeur a tant de peine !

L'Heure Exquise La lune blanche Luit dans les bois ; De chaque branche Part une voix Sous la ramée... Ô bien-aimée. L'étang reflète, Profond miroir, La silhouette Du saule noir Où le vent pleure... Rêvons, c'est l'heure. Un vaste et tendre Apaisement Semble descendre Du firmament Que l'astre irise... C'est l'heure exquise.

Moi, je ne puis, chétif trouvère de Paris, T'offrir que ce bouquet de strophes enfantines : Sois bénin, et pour prix, sur les lèvres mutines D'Une que je connais, Baiser, descends, et ris.

Ce n'était ni le Diable ni le bon Dieu, c'était Arthur Rimbaud, c'est-à-dire un très grand poète.

Prague is far more than the sum of its physical parts or its history. It is a city of the mind and the imagination, a city that exists as vividly in poetry and painting and music and legend as it does in brick and stone... Just as the physical city of Prague would be unimaginable without its unique topography, without its palaces, its churches, its parks, its streets, and its hostelries, so the Prague of the mind would be unimaginable without its storytellers and the tales they weave.

What are you thinking? Just of how much you've changed me. This is why there is poetry. For days like these.

I ran into Berkeley Cole again. It had been two years since my coming-out party, that night he and Denys Finch Hatton had recited poetry for me in blindingly white coats,

Without saying anything I reached for the champagne flute he held and downed it in one go. It was a dramatic gesture, but there were bits of verse still swirling in my head like the milky trails of stars.

This is why there is poetry. For days like these.

I was maybe 19 years old. And I always remember that it was a great feeling of happiness. Because of that, I said to Myles that it's no different for me if I am read­ing poetry or if I am reading Marx. I try to get the beauty in the very act of reading, you see. This is for me something that many times teachers don't try to do.

Coração PRA CIMA escrito embaixo FRÁGIL

Escrevo. E pronto. Escrevo porque preciso, preciso porque estou tonto. Ninguém tem nada com isso. Escrevo porque amanhece e as estrelas lá no céu lembram letras no papel, quando o poema me anoitece. A aranha tece teias. O peixe beija e morde o que vê. Eu escrevo apenas. Tem que ter por quê?

An aside that will appeal to the well-rounded reader: A creative high that increases physical and mental work capacity is accompanied by noradrenaline secretion. Perhaps this explains why the samurai were equally proficient at war and poetry.

Science is closer to poetry than it is to our vital lives.50

Si uno diluye un buen poema en un litro de agua consigue un cuento regular. Si uno diluye ese cuento en diez litros de agua, consigue una novela innecesaria.

A speech is poetry: cadence, rhythm, imagery, sweep! A speech reminds us that words, like children, have the power to make dance the dullest beanbag of a heart.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person not our own…. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers to the effect by acting upon the cause.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from Heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

I weep for Adonais [John Keats]—he is dead!Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tearsThaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.