Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

In all innocence I plead guilty for loving you by accident.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barleycorn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. And I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. And I know I am deathless. I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like ocean tides

In all ages woman has been the source of all that is pure, unselfish, and heroic in the spirit and life of man.....poetry and fiction are based upon woman's love, and the movements of history are mainly due to the sentiments or ambitions she has inspired......there is no aspiration which any man here to-night entertains, no achievement he seeks to accomplish, no great and honorable ambition he desires to gratify, which is not directly related to either or both a mother or a wife. From the hearth-stone around which linger the recollections of our mother, from the fireside where our wife awaits us, come all the purity, all the hope, and all the courage with which we fight the battle of life. The man who is not thus inspired, who labors not so much to secure the applause of the world as the solid and more precious approval of his home, accomplishes little of good for others or of honor for himself. I close with the hope that each of us may always have near us: 'A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command, And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.

In all our wrongs, I want to write him, in a time where I can find him. Before the tears that tore us. When our history was before us.

In all the flames of fire fume’s left the trace Into the bluest sea the sky is drowned The miracles of life can you embrace From the poem 'Can You Embrace?

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

In an instant he forgot Joe's poem about Japan except the part about 'you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,' and a new sound entered his life, like when he was a kid and he first heard the sound of horses clip-clopping and he asked his mother in wonder, "What's that sound, because I've never heard it before?

In another land there is glory In another land there is happiness In another land we all get along In another land we will stand with others

In a pine tree, A few yards away from my window sill, A brilliant blue jay is springing up and down, up and down, On a branch. I laugh, as I see him abandon himself To entire delight, for he knows as well as I do That the branch will not break.

In a serener Bright, In a more golden light I see Each little doubt and fear, Each little discord here Removed.

in a slapfight with Jesus my face bleeds because no one cut their fingernails back then

In a single wave of meaning the triumphant purity of being.

In a way, she became the sand to my hourglass... she made watching that trickling sand a little more bearable. I no longer worried about what would happen when the sand ran out. I began to see the spark each grain held as it fell.

in a split second of letting down my guard and opening up my soul, you corrupted it with this magnificent disease called 'love

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks ... to the life of a day given to me. A day shared with past and present, living and dying, of body and not, and a realization that in everything that is, there is something that was.

In a world of love lightning and rainbow are lovers now. They arc and strike upon the horizon of credence to rise above their cloudy vow

in a world of chaos and ticking clocks, live for the moments that keep you still

In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death.

In darkness, some flowers blossom!

In daylight we pick up our tinned rations and hike off, every artery and nerve of us, into the rest of our commemorative lives.

In dealing with us, God always starts with our motives. What do you want for the people? What does God wants for his people? What do you want Him to do for you; that's is a starting place.

In death we vanquished enemies, In death, we slew our foes. Blood soaked rage engulfed our blades, When blood lust took its hold. – In death, a darkness troubled one, In death, concealed, undone. Deep in darkness dragons wait, When blood would set the sun. – In death, we glorified his name. In death, we saw too late, When drink, to him, we raised in praise, The dragon sealed his fate. – In death, we lived. In death, we fought. In death, we grew to hate. In death, the blackened wraith released, The blinded shade beneath. – In death, his darkened eyes grew dim. In death, his mind was lost within. With blackened eyes, he slew his kin, In death, we lost to him. – In death, I took up sword and slew. In death, the dragon’s wrath ensued. We had no choice. The dragon fumed. In death, he was consumed. – In death, our brother’s blood deplored, In death, our brother, did I gore, When I rose up and killed one more. His blood ensconced my sword. – From death, his mutterings are weak. From death, his voice, to me, it speaks. Entombed within my brother’s keep, Revived in death, he sleeps.

Incomparable wound weeps through a parable Barrenness I bear into the unbearable I read the pale sadness from the unreadable My mind starts breeding from the bare unbreedable

In dividing the light, things are seen. And we notice ourselves.

Inebriate of Air — am I — And Debauchee of Dew — Reeling — thro endless summer days — From Inns of Molten Blue —

indelible waiting l'art poetique "..I will wait for the night to chase me..." I sit on a rock and watch children playing in the park below They don't see me Or know my thoughts Or that you haven't called But I forgive them their indifference today Above me a crow caws Perhaps he smells the crumbs on my dress Or my anger But he flits away over the trees Probably has a home Probably has a wife Probably knew to call The children leave The coffee in my can turns cold The wind nips at me Some street lights flicker on But I won't move Not yet I will wait for the night to chase me Back where I came from Up the empty street To a quiet house

In distance we seek what we call home, the mad city where we belong.

I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away. My heart goes wandering around and calls for Susie...My heart is full of you; none other than you are in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. If you were here, we need not talk at all for our eyes would whisper for us and, your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language.

I need to work on me. The me without you.

I negate this distance with / what it would be / to be shining you.

I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.

I never think of burning a star when I acquire certain sadness attached by suspending from the top of a raging dark sky within my unnerving me. From the poem- Not A NightGazer

I never understood desire until i felt your hands around my throat.

I never knew what feeling was I only felt the pain

I never wanted to be saved, just loved in ways that would make the Gods jealous.

In every possibility of a mind May you travel, yet not blind. As a head filled with imagination, Goes a heart full of gold creation, It's never late to have a dream. Nor is it so far away as it seems, And, like a rearview mirror reveals, Thus a fantasy soon becomes real. It may be closer than it appears. Or at least it will show up clear. Never give up a dream for fear!

In fact she herself once blamed me Kyprogeneia because I prayed this word: I want.

I never wish to celebrate The year of my birth, For fear lest I wake, By the clinking of glasses and noisy mirth, All those who sleep in memory's vaults.

In every garden grows one single rose so perfect that once the frost takes it, no other can grow there again. My rose is and will ever be my Edilyn. And I shall never stop mourning her." Illarion's Tattoo

In every scene I am waiting for you To be with me in dreams

In general, dividing literature into prose and poetry began with the appearance of prose, for only in prose could such a division be expressed. By its nature, by its essence, art is hierarchical, automatically, and in this hierarchy, poetry stands above prose. If only because poetry is older. Poetry really is a very strange thing, because it belongs to a troglodyte as well as to a snob. It can be produced in the Stone Age and in the most modern salon, whereas prose requires a developed society, a developed structure, certain established classes, if you like. Here you could start reasoning like a Marxist without even being wrong. The poet works from the voice, from the sound. For him, content is not as important as is ordinarily believed. For a poet, there is almost no difference between phonetics and semantics. Therefore, only very rarely does the poet give any thought to who in fact comprises his audience. That is, he does so much more rarely than the prose writer.

In fiction, the characters have their own lives. They may start as a gloss on the author’s life, but they move on from there. In poetry, especially confessional poetry but in other poetry as well, the poet is not writing characters so much as emotional truth wrapped in metaphor. Bam! Pow! A shot to the gut.

Infectious smile has infected tears The laughter strikes with spears I am not dear and they are not sincere Feeling fear I must perform For when I stop the stage is gone

in his fractured eyes, she knew love was alive and cynicism faded inevitably with time…

In God’s Kingdom there are no overnight sensations or flash-in-the-pan successes. Anyone who wants to be used of God will experience hidden years in the backside of the desert. During that time the Lord is polishing, sharpening and preparing us to fit into His bow, so at the right time, like “a polished shaft” He can launch us into fruitful service. The invisible years are years of serving, studying, being faithful in another person’s ministry and doing the behind-the-scenes work. The Bible says, ‘God is not unjust; he will not forget your work’ (Hebrews 6:10 NIV 2011 Edition). Be patient; when the time is right He will bring forth the fruit He placed inside you.

inhale the fragrance of the Shiulis they are lying on grass inhale the fragrance of the Shiulis in the night they bloom inhale the fragrance of the Shiulis they are magical inhale the fragrance of the Shiulis intoxicating till the last inhale the fragrance of the Shiulis the fragrance may not be there for tomorrow alas!

In July I think about the idea of being cursed (because it’s not strange to me; when I look in mirrors I’m not there, blank walls gleaming with bloody condensation, and my shadow behind me mocking me with his persistence when I keep telling him to leave just to leave to let me be).

In hundreds of years of wish fulfillment, never once to the demon’s bereavement, had a wish gone unable to be yielded. It was love this day, which defeated the curse, and there in Hell there was little worse, than the dark forces of evil gone unwielded.

In intimacy there exists a line That can't be crossed by passion or love's art -- In awful silence lips melt into one And out of love to pieces bursts the heart. And friendship here is impotent, and years Of happiness sublime in fire aglow, When soul is free and does not hear The dulling of sweet passion, long and slow. Those who are striving toward it are in fever, But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers. Now you have understood, why forever My heart does not beat underneath your fingers.