Best 8 184 of Poetry quotes - MyQuotes
Mr. Morris's poem is ushered into the world with a very florid birthday speech from the pen of the author of the too famous Poems and Ballads,—a circumstance, we apprehend, in no small degree prejudicial to its success. But we hasten to assure all persons whom the knowledge of Mr. Swinburne's enthusiasm may have led to mistrust the character of the work, that it has to our perception nothing in common with this gentleman's own productions, and that his article proves very little more than that his sympathies are wiser than his performance. If Mr. Morris's poem may be said to remind us of the manner of any other writer, it is simply of that of Chaucer; and to resemble Chaucer is a great safeguard against resembling Swinburne.
There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either
Heather Angelika Dooley
He taught me what true love is: helping each other breathe a little easier— smooth and steady— instead of dying a little every day, choking on being loved as someone's vice.
Could thou not make those that have been made, and be now, and that are for to come, at once; that thou might shew thy judgement the sooner?
It's obvious, I have a crush on you.
The poet's discourse can be compared to the track of a charged particle through a cloud-chamber. An energised field of association and connotation, of overtones and undertones, of rebus and homophone, surround its motion, and break from it in the context of collision .. in Western poetry so much of the charged substance is previous poetry.
The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time; its innate sense, When stripped of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert.
Beaches are God's poetry.
Non of us really knew, it was never about solving the mystery, it was about keeping it.
It is untrue that bravery can be measured by a lack of fear. It takes guts to tremble. It takes tremble to love.
We were always eating expired things. Milk, bread, biscuits, cake. We forgot about them as they sat around the house and just as they had gone bad, we put them in our mouths. Chocolates I brought back with me from Australia, cheeses in last year's Christmas hamper, juice from the last time someone decided to go grocery shopping. We didn't always realize they tasted funny – not everything curdles and a two-month-old orange can be just as sweet. When we did, it was usually too late. Sometimes it wasn't. We finished what we had started anyway.
Nobody knows the aftermath.
S.O.S. De telefoon opnemen op de grens van het bestaanbare ten einde raad een wildvreemd nummer draaien roepend: ik ben doodongelukkig dood en ongelukkig zeg iets wat mooi klinkt lieg iets wat beter lijkt ik ben doodongelukkig red mij.
I wait on my fix: I am a poetry junkie.
When twilight sleeps holding the night In your arms you embrace me tight Runaway hours clenched by kisses More of your love my heart misses
I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank.
UNDIVIDED I am for One world undivided. One world without fear and corruption. One world ruled by Truth and Justice. I am for One peaceful world for all, Where hate has been overcome by love, And everyone is guided only By their conscience.
You took away My ray of sunshine, My unending glow. You took away Everything with you, My dreams and my feelings!
Rodolfo Martin Vitangcol
Dictatorship is the best form of rule: decisions are quick, good results are full. If God were to come down to lead the word, wouldn't He act like an absolute Lord? Yet, most would rather choose democracy, they just could not stomach autocracy. It's because if godless be the ruler, dictatorship spells hell of disaster.
I will complain, yet praise; I will bewail, approve: And all my sowre-sweet dayes I will lament, and love.
What Do the Trees Know? What do the trees know? To bend when all the wild winds blow. Roots are deep and time is slow. All we grasp we must let go. What do the trees know? Buds can weather ice and snow. Dark gives way to sunlight's glow. Strength and stillness help us grow.
I wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh, and you cannot help but want me. You think it's cruel how I break your heart, to write a poem. I think it's alchemy.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
For this present, hard Is the fortune of the bard, Born out of time; All his accomplishment, From Nature's utmost treasure spent, Booteth not him.
I see a bird carrying me and carrying you, with us as its wings, beyond the dream, to a journey that has no end and no beginning, no purpose and no goal. I do not speak to you, and you do not speak to me; we listen only to the music of silence. Silence is the friend's trust of friend, imagination's self-confidence between rain and rainbow. A rainbow is inspiration provoking the poet, uninvited, the infatuation of the poet with the prose of the Quran. Which of your Lord's blessings do you disown? We are absent, you and I; we are present, you and I. And absent. Which of your Lord's blessings do you disown?
Snake's Lullaby Brother, sister, flick your tongue and taste the flakes of autumn sun. Use these last few hours of gold to travel, travel toward the cold. Before your coils grow stiff and dull, your heartbeat slows to winter's lull, seek the sink of sheltered stones that safely cradle sleeping bones. Brother, sister, find the ways back to the deep and tranquil bays, and 'round each other twist and fold to weave a heavy cloak of cold.
I am not a broken heart, and I am not your fault.
Yes, it’s tough, it’s tough, that goes without saying. But isn’t waiting itself and longing a wonder, being played on by wind, sun, and shade?
Sometimes we suffer too much reality in the space of a single night.
you are the prettiest bouquet of dying flowers i have ever seen.
When you catch it in the right light, you'll see how each shattered piece of my heart never truly fit back in place again.
I don't just have only the peace of God, I do also have a God who gives peace, not just resources but the revelation of His presence.
She just needs someone to remind her of all the things she already knows about herself.
Dear Lover, Your laughter is warm rain, and you are the rainbow.
If the colour of life turns grey turn the palette the other way
hear not what I say like the howl, words fade away only fear remains
Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.
CHANGGAN MEMORIES When first my hair began to cover my forehead, I picked and played with flowers before the gate. You came riding on a bamboo horse, And circled the walkway, playing with green plums. We lived together, here in Changgan county, Two children, without the least suspicion. When I was fourteen, I became your wife, So shy that still my face remained unopened. I bowed my head towards the shadowed wall, And called one thousand times, I turned not once. At 15 I began to lift my brows, And wished to be with you as dust with ashes. You always kept your massive pillar faith, I had no need to climb the lookout hill. When I was sixteen, you went far away, To Yanyudui, within the Qutang gorge. You should not risk the dangerous floods of May, Now from the sky, the monkeys cry in mourning. Before the gate, my pacing's left a mark, Little by little, the green moss has grown. The moss is now too deep to sweep away, And leaves fall in the autumn's early winds. This August, all the butterflies are yellow, A pair fly over the western garden's grass. I feel that they are damaging my heart, Through worrying, my rosy face grows old. When you come down the river from Sanba, Beforehand, send a letter to your home. We'll go to meet each other, however far, I'll come up to Changfengsha.
Don't need a magic carpet to soar or wings to fly. I simply close my eyes and place my soul against the sky.
Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul. If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas. For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction. Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing; And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.
If history is a record of survivors, Poetry shelters other voices.
Charge like a herd of buffalo through the fire and seek your truth. Be your own revolution.
It was in the words he didn't say... that I found all the answers to my questions.
Love is the true state of the human heart. When we love, we unguard our hearts. We open ourselves up to the world with- out any restraint. When passion flows, desires stir, our earthy senses become dull, and our ethereal self becomes illumined. At this stage, we are naked, totally naked, with little or no covering of ego.
Why didn't you write all this time? Did you not remember us in a song? A dance? In the skies littered with stars? Did you not get drunk? Why didn’t you write all this time? Did you not remember us in a film? A book? In idyllic dusks and dawns? Did you not get high? It is good that you didn't. For all is well. I am drunk and dazed. I have already forgotten you and your bewitching ways.
Speak, roofless Nature, your instinctive words; And let me learn your secret from the sky, Following a flock of steadfast-journeying birds In lone remote migration beating by. December stillness, crossed by twilight roads, Teach me to travel far and bear my loads.
I fall into those gaps sometimes. You know, the gaps that open up in between thoughts. I reach out for the walls. Every time. And I grasp at emptiness… The gaps don’t have walls. You don’t need walls to climb out. You don’t need a matchstick either; light only makes your shadows look frightening. You only need to search the darkness for the old face, carbon paper and a white mask.
You are judged many times more by what you give assent to others doing than what you do yourself. If one million of you give assent to the one thousand who participate in the murder of a child, then one million of you are a million times guilty.
What you are trying to let go of ...is already gone.
We can sum up the surrealist distinction between 'literature' and 'poetry' by saying where the former is artificial, fictive and elusive, the latter is natural, real, direct and spontaneous.
It is spiritually beneficial to understand that if we can first accept what is happening at any moment we will experience more harmony within ourselves as a human being.