Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Outdoors next day, I was dizzy from a sense Of being ejected with some violence From vigil in a white and distant spot Where I was numb, into this garden plot Too warm, too close, and not enough like pain.

Out of a million stars in the sky, there is only one that glows to my eyes.

Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.

Outside, the meadows - dewy and golden are cloaked in summer blooms. My heart, scorching and desolate sighs and sings sad songs of despair And while I gather hundreds of broken pieces of my heart Outside, the meadows - dewy and golden are cloaked in summer blooms.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil.... Pretty soon all twenty of us - our class - would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I'd been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other's socks.... The poems I loved were in French, or translated from the Chinese, Portuguese, Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek. I murmured their heartbreaking sylllables. I knew almost nothing of the diverse and energetic city I lived in. The poems whispered in my ear the password phrase, and I memorized it behind enemy lines: There is a world. There is another world. I knew already that I would go to Hollins College in Virginia; our headmistress sent all her problems there, to her alma mater. "For the English department," she told me.... But, "To smooth off her rough edges," she had told my parents. They repeated the phrase to me, vividly. I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface, and exit through it. Would I be ground, instead, to a nub? Would they send me home, an ornament to my breed, in a jewelry bag?

Out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be. And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.

Overmodulation By Charlotte M Liebel-Fawls You're a cavity in my oasis, You're a porthole in my sea, You're a stretch of the imagination every time you look at me. You're an ocean in my wineglass, You're a Steinway on the beach, You're a captivating audience, an exciting Rembrandt, A Masterpiece.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An' foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, An' ev'n devotion!

Overstand everything and own nothing but control everything, it's a bond between God & I. As He appears to me, I ask that he discharge my sins and wipe my slate clean.

O, weary angels, don’t look at me with those eyes. If that is your state then what of our cries? What can I tell you of goodness that you don’t already know? What can I tell you of faith, of hope and love that you yourselves bestow? O, angels, don’t pluck another feather, this isn’t the sky, it’s just the weather. Please, angels, try. We are one all together. Look up and listen, I’ll say it once and then put down my pen: We are sorry for our ignorance and even though we are worldly, it might happen again. We are sorry for your weariness and even though you aren’t worldly, we are no more than human.

Ô, Wanderess, Wanderess When did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every unanswered right, unanswered prayer, For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: One fiery-colored moment: one great love: and lo! we die.

O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away

O you can’t tell someone just how lonely he is

Pada sebuah buku yg berbicara tentang masa depan, aku melihat wajahmu menjelma pagi yang terbit di tiap halaman bersama asaku.

Pages burnt, memories buried, I wake or think I'm awake. Or dreaming still?

Pain can make us lash out in unexpected ways. Pain can make us hurt those we care about. Pain can build walls between two human souls.

Ozymandias" I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

O Weep No More For Me When I Am Gone!

oxygen Everything needs it: bone, muscles, and even, while it calls the earth its home, the soul. So the merciful, noisy machine stands in our house working away in its lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel before the fire, stirring with a stick of iron, letting the logs lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room, are in your usual position, leaning on your right shoulder which aches all day. You are breathing patiently; it is a beautiful sound. It is your life, which is so close to my own that I would not know where to drop the knife of separation. And what does this have to do with love, except everything? Now the fire rises and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red roses of flame. Then it settles to quietude, or maybe gratitude, as it feeds as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift: our purest, sweet necessity: the air.

Pada jarak ribuan kilometer darimu kukenali aroma pagi yang senantiasa menumbuhkan niscaya. Lalu apakah arti jarak bila kau tak pernah pergi dari hati dan benak?

Pagi menyelinap di jemarimu sebagai sepi yang selalu ditangkap puisi, mengabadikan sepasang jejak yang sembunyi

Pain is an old friend who left briefly and has now returned. Starvation without sustenance, I had grown acquaint. Satiety was a stranger who invaded my deepest being, and now I cannot live without.

Painted desert, ocean of color sun's worshiper, moon's lover picture of a coyote's voice sandbox of angels, another toy.

Painting is mute poetry, and poetry is blind painting

Paint the stars and the moon back into my night sky and tell me it is okay to cry without asking why.

... paint in blue and black...sometimes gray - the colors of night - occasionally I surprise you with a mustard yellow, but then, I am a poet ...

Painting is a kind of visual poetry as poetry is a kind of verbal painting.

Pain, too, comes from depths that cannot be revealed. We do not know whether those depths are in ourselves or elsewhere, in a graveyard, in a scarcely dug grave, only recently inhabited by withered flesh. This truth, which is banal enough, unravels time and the face, holds up a mirror to me in which I cannot see myself without being overcome by a profound sadness that undermines one's whole being. The mirror has become the route through which my body reaches that state, in which it is crushed into the ground, digs a temporary grave, and allows itself to be drawn by the living roots that swarm beneath the stones. It is flattened beneath the weight of that immense sadness which few people have the privilege of knowing. So I avoid mirrors.

Pain writes the words, sorrow wields the pen, tears wet the paper, and the story mends the heart.

Palulanguṟu Godalu wangkangu, “Kaḻaḻari!” Ka kaḻaḻaringu. (And God said, "Let there be light!" And there was light.)

Paper terrorists, contrast flow as a domesticated emperoist. Building my empire, elevation to the Heaven is a high that keeps me higher. A pillar of fire, lead us to the Promised Land even though our nature makes us a liar. Always set my feet on the right path you've paved but when setting out on a path of revenge, make sure you dig up two graves. It's either love or hate and who can relate? Enter the Kingdom of Heaven or Hell is your fate.

‘Paradise Lost’ was printed in an edition of no more than 1,500 copies and transformed the English language. Took a while. Wordsworth had new ideas about nature: Thoreau read Wordsworth, Muir read Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt read Muir, and we got a lot of national parks. Took a century. What poetry gives us is an archive, the fullest existent archive of what human beings have thought and felt by the kind of artists who loved language in a way that allowed them to labor over how you make a music of words to render experience exactly and fully.

Paris and Helen He called her: golden dawn She called him: the wind whistles He called her: heart of the sky She called him: message bringer He called her: mother of pearl barley woman, rice provider, millet basket, corn maid, flax princess, all-maker, weef She called him: fawn, roebuck, stag, courage, thunderman, all-in-green, mountain strider keeper of forests, my-love-rides He called her: the tree is She called him: bird dancing He called her: who stands, has stood, will always stand She called him: arriver He called her: the heart and the womb are similar She called him: arrow in my heart.

part memory part distance remaining mine in the ways that I learn to miss you

Parched by the deprivation of your love for so long made me forget what a cup brimming with love, on my lips, felt like. Everything that now wets it, only wrinkles it with a bland taste.

Parents never you make church and studying the word of God optional for your children. If they are in your house, get them up, teach them the word of God, the greatest awards, PhD or achievements any child could have is to grow up in the word of God. I and my family are living witness and it is extending to our third generation.

Partial skinning may be less painful, perhaps delay unpleasantness, how pain set in breasts, back, and belly offers less agony, some reprieve, while the skinning of fingers, nose, cheeks and lips feels like spears. . .

Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

Parent-Teacher Conference At the parent-teacher conference, my father made a scene. He scared my fifth-grade teacher, with his mask from Halloween. She showed him all my science grades and said she was concerned, but he just stuck his tongue out when my teacher’s back was turned. He drew a monster on the board and claimed it was her twin. He even shook her soda, which expolded on her chin. My angry teacher crossed her arms and said, “This meeting’s done! I now see where he gets it from— you act just like your son!

Passion lingers on a state of bliss Love loves you more when you kiss

Pater noster Our Father who art in heaven Stay there And we'll stay here on earth Which is sometimes so pretty With its mysteries of New York And its mysteries of Paris At least as good as that of the Trinity With its little canal at Ourcq Its great wall of China Its river at Morlaix Its candy canes With its Pacific Ocean And its two basins in the Tuileries With its good children and bad people With all the wonders of the world Which are here Simply on the earth Offered to everyone Strewn about Wondering at the wonder of themselves And daring not avow it As a naked pretty girl dares not show herself With the world's outrageous misfortunes Which are legion With legionaries With torturers With the masters of this world The masters with their priests their traitors and their troops With the seasons With the years With the pretty girls and with the old bastards With the straw of misery rotting in the steel of cannons.

Paths are long, Paths are short - Doest it make any difference In what country, Or on what path you lose your way?

Patience! It is not how quickly you run, but how slowly.

Pause, take a deep breath and start again when you feel all your efforts are in vain. Pause and lift your spirits and forgive all over, when you feel your relations are gonna end forever. If at first, you don't succeed, don't lose hope, pause! try again! and proceed. when everything around seems going away, give your heart and mind a pause and sway. The wind will take you far when you lay, remember to let your thoughts linger on the way. A pause can do wonders, can save you from creating blunders. It saves you from telling a lie, your ego to reach the sky. Pause before you react and you fight, it will make your life shining bright.

Pay to go inside Neruda's home A body lies there with no dome. But right there in the front hall Lean a fairy against the icy wall. Oh Endless enigmas had the bard! Nice and large and calm backyard Ends In the middle of a rare room Rare portrait of revelishing gloom. Up climbing at the weird snail stair Does make you grasp for some air. And there's a room with bric-a-brac: Old and precious books all in a pack. Dare saying what I liked most of all? Enjoyed seeing visitors having a ball!

Peace can only be the fruit of the love of an encounter.

Peace is the greatest state that Human minds ever longed to find Delight,Peace is as well the secret act that makes a Creative Heart renowned.