Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

there are songs about life, but fewer about death and that is some small consolation as there are many more on love than there are hate.

There are things known and there are things unknown and in between are the doors.

There are things you want to say but don't There are things I want to say but I already said them A year ago or two or five, when we first met There were times I thought you knew I loved you You never knew We never were I died You died That's it

There are some places you can't visit anymore, poetry and writings take you there.

there are some poems that we leave behind some that leave us behind while some just live silently in the heart crumble, sometimes dwindle disappear die and are reborn when you smile again.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

There are those times when you need to push negative people aside, give fear a swift kick in the ass and fire up your dreams.

There are things that are not sayable. That's why we have words.

There are three lessons I would write- Three words, as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light, Upon the heart of men. Have hope! though clouds environ round, And gladness hides her face in scorn, Put thou the shadow from thy brow, No night but hath its morn. Have love! not love alone for one, But man as man thy brother call, And scatter like the circling sun, Thy charities on all.

The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.

The reason for the existence of the perfection conjured up in these fourteen lines is that it possesses ... the authorization to form a message that appeals from within itself. This power of appeal is exquisitely evident in the object evoked here. The perfect thing is that which articulates an entire principle of being. The poem has to perform no more and no less than to perceive the principle of being in the thing and adapt it to its own existence - with the aim of becoming a construct with an equal power to convey a message.

T]here arises an insight, which the poet must learn through other people. There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.

There are two ways to dislike poetry: One is to dislike it; the other is to read Pope.

There are ways of entering the dream / The way a painter enters a studio: / To spill.

The reason some people do not experience God in their life is the same reason that we do not notice that something is going wrong with our marriage untill we arrive in a divorce court or that something is wrong with our child until we got a phone call from the police station . Simply put....Because we do not pay attention

There can be no forced inspiration.

There can be no law of nature, no science, No aberrant infliction of human will That unchained the soul cannot conquer, Simply sweep away, should it chose to.

There,far on an unknown chasm,the horizon kiss the sea,in its departing moves rather like the deep console of mind touches the seriousness of a maiden heart in her yearning runs for blithe.

there have been mornings so quiet and tender like a poem, on Thursday's lips that I wondered if I'd been kissed at all...

The red sun drips its molten dusk. Wet fires embrace the barren orchards, these gardens in A city of cold slumbers. I am trapped in it.

There exists a chance of every poem getting changed while reaching every reader. This ‘getting changed’ is a form of ‘getting translated’, in a way. So, every assimilation of any poem is a translation.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

there have been so many times i have seen a man wanting to weep but instead beat his heart until it was unconscious.

There is a crack, a crack, in everything. That's how the light gets in.

There is a charm in Solitude that cheers A feeling that the world knows nothing of A green delight the wounded mind endears After the hustling world is broken off

There is a deep truth in being at home enough with someone to kiss them while your lips are dry. And happiness may not be the greatest of things to hear, but it should be.

There is a beast within my heart. She plays immaculately with the beauty in my soul.

There is a defect in us as human beings because we think ourselves a fortress, a mountain, unbreakable but at the center in that stillness of being there is a chasm of love which echoes hope, compassion, empathy try again, it says and though the fault lines are full of darkness we are held together by the optimism and foolishness of a single spark

There is always a glimmer in those who have been through the dark.

There is a miracle in your mess, don't let the mess make you miss the miracle.

There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find

There is a master way with words which is not learned but is instead developed: a deaf man develops exceptional vision, a blind man exceptional hearing, a silent man, when given a piece of paper...

There is an Anglo-Saxon form of riddling that plays with the polarities of words like bright and dark, cold and warm, throwing them against one another and crafting lines of rich, humorous nonsense like this poem that has been around for so many hundreds of years that you just have to sit back and, with nothing else in mind, laugh out loud.

There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.

There is a moon, that rests in the quiet corners of a lover’s lips.

There is a poem at the heart of things and a mythic story in the heart of each of us. At certain times it is the poetry of life and the mythic imagination of the soul that become necessary in order to heal the wounds inflicted by an excess of reason or an overuse of force.

There is a point where the universe can deliver you from the verge of regret. I know your love for me will take you there.

There is a rose in me In there Somewhere, amongst the thorns Do you dare?

There is a reason that the world is not black and white, for chaos demands color.

There is a secret language in every kiss that brings us into the light, every kiss is a history within itself

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more

There is a remedy and there is a hope but the remedy is not in the political party or in places that will take you away from hope. You better run to God, that is the only place you can find both.

There is a whisper of light if you can hear Louder than sound of darkness you never fear Numb sky’s muteness leaves you hard of hearing Senses wish to fly feelings disappearing

There is dancing and laughter in hell, an angel weeping openly on a park bench in heaven. My mother, dead and frantic in an attic. A white shirt on a floor. An old man in a wheelchair, rubbing his eyes. Here it is, here it is! the occupational therapists sing as they rise to the surface of the earth, smiling, bearing their terrible surprise.

There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here Did I just now hear a beautiful symphony over here ? Or is it just your soothing words murmuring in my ear? Is it the cute mynah bird on my shoulder? Or is it your soft head nestling that I feel so tender? There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here... Did I just now hear the nightingale sing around here? Or is it the breeze whispering softly to the trees near? Is that you giggling away to glory? Or is that just the flowers mingling with the bees and telling their story? There is a tender breeze Wafting around here Feel it from your Soul You will see Magic over here..

There is beauty all around us, and the light finds us when we realize, we are all part of that beauty and worth the cherishing. If we despise any, we journey to despise ourselves. See all as beautiful, even if they choose to see themselves through you, as being less than so. We have the power to see for each, and be the reflection of what they may yet see.

There is hardly a limit to the knowledge and sympathy a man may have in respect of the finest things, and yet be a fool. Sympathy is not harmony. A man may be a poet even, and speak with the tongue of an angel, and yet be a very bad fool.

There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask "What if I fall?" Oh but my darling, What if you fly?

There is love and everyone can love.