Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

MIDNIGHT SONG OF WU In Chang'an city is the disk of the moon, The sound of pounding clothes in ten thousand households. The autumn wind is blowing without cease, All the time I think of Yuguan pass. When will we pacify the pillaging Hu, So my husband can end his long journey?

Mind's acres are forever green: Oh, I Shall keep perpetual summer here; I shall Refuse to let one startled swallow die, Or, from the copper beeches, one leaf fall.

mind the angels my love mind also those words dragging across our lips

Min ene sko knirker af mangel på stjerneskud

Minas Velhas, país largo, Ar de chuva, com penhascos, Serras, matos e vargedos Onde dorme o que nem sei. Tenho ali os meus guardados, Tenho ali os meus (segredo!).

Miłość, sen i śmierć nadchodzą pomału Schwyć mnie za włosy i mocno pocałuj.

Miracle: to love more with an irreparable heartache

mi rostro? un cero disimulado..

Mislaid flame of tender emotions Rekindled. Together we live to the point of tears, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Mit deinen Augen, welche müde kaum von der verbrauchten Schwelle sich befrein, hebst du ganz langsam einen schwarzen Baum und stellst ihn vor den Himmel: schlank, allein. Und hast die Welt gemacht. Und sie ist groß und wie ein Wort, das noch im Schweigen reift. Und wie dein Wille ihren Sinn begreift, lassen sie deine Augen zärtlich los ...

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful error, Melancholy's child, Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon concieved, Thou never com'st unto a happy birth, But kill'st the mother that engendered thee.

Mist lies over the river like the icy breath of winter angels. Darkness gathers round... and it is beautiful. Thank you for this life, this death, whatever it is you are that makes us finally see.

Mixed thoughts of business and pleasure, 100 million dollar meetings is a success of true measure. Privately bonded to the treasury of secrecy, it's secrets that give keys to open sesame, look to the Bible for it's a sweet recipe of Supremacy. Find the knowledge to it all and never sell it for loose lips sink ships.

Moments caught in time. Simple memories spread out before me. Timeless reminders of how life goes on, even when it feels as if you cannot.

Midway between the too soiled ground and the too-sublime vaults, at the level of the air, entering the skin of the role, poetry plays its game.

Miekkani nostan, tämän miekan niin kauan omistamani: on vihdoinkin aika se singota taivasta päin.

MOM Wholeheartedly, She loved me- And inspired me- With transcending devotion. It was a blessing- To have been her son, To have been loved- Without conditions. Her words of wisdom- Opened my eyes- To the world- And to myself. By seeing the best in me, She empowered me. By believing in me, She transformed me. She grew old- And floated away, But her love remains standing- Eternally by my side.

Mon Dieu, la vie est par trop moche.

Mom Our empty home reminds Me of you My sleepless nights Are full of your memories Mom I want to cry Till my tears run dry Mom I need you back At least for a little while

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: 'Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy

Morning, noon & bloody night, Seven sodding days a week, I slave at filthy WORK, that might Be done by any book-drunk freak. This goes on until I kick the bucket. FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT

Most events are inexpressible, and take place in a sphere that no word has ever entered. Most inexpressible of all are works of art, existences full of secrets whose life continues alongside ours, while ours is transitory.

MISERABLE Release the toxic and infectious- Spreaders of misery, Souls destroying souls- And poisonous liars. Awaken from the hallucinations- And take back your heart. Reclaim your self-esteem- And leave the toxic be.

Money undergoes a conversion when one has more of it than is strictly necessary. When there is enough of it to move beyond the strict survival mode, money goes in search of beauty. That is to say, in search of the abstract and the imaginary. Just like poetry, which is the distillation of an excess of language. Too much money and too many words tend toward the poetic.

Moom' and 'tomb' actually rhyme, which is something Dickinson hardly ever did, preferring near-rhymes such as 'mat/gate', 'tune/sun,' and 'balm/hermaphrodite.

Moon is a superstar to a neon light Both are in doubt of their lifeless plight One envies the sun, the other one’s scared But to face the dark they’re always prepared

Moonless nights haunt me. They evoke my once carefree life when I dreamed without doubt to what my future could be. I yearn for a time when my mother’s tree swayed beneath the dusk like an amber sea, but the past is locked without a key. Never to return—only flee.

Moon is the light from a lantern in heaven

Moonlight and high wind. Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.

moonlight disappears down the hills mountains vanish into fog and i vanish into poetry.

Moonless nights haunt me. They evoke remembrances of a carefree life when I dreamed without doubt to what my future could be. I yearn for a time when my mother’s tree swayed beneath the dusk like an amber sea, but the past is locked without a key. Never to return—only flee

Moon, that against the lintel of the west Your forehead lean until the gate be swung, Longing to leave the world and be at rest, Being worn with faring and no longer young, Do you recall at all the Carian hill Where worn with loving, loving late you lay, Halting the sun because you lingered still, While wondering candles lit the Carian day? Ah, if indeed this memory to your mind Recall some sweet employment, pity me, That even now the dawn's dim herald see! I charge you, goddess, in the name of one You loved as well: endure, hold off the sun.

moonrise settle back with muffins and tea until the window empties

More than nakedness, for there is no cover to take. The fire in your eyes is ringed with water; wide and cool. We are far from the brutal place, but you do not think so. You take my hand and disappear like you were never there, except that I am now somewhere else.

Most of the poems I write take 5 minutes, but the words can give a lifetime of relief. Many people that have read my book say it helped them with their grief.

Most of us carry at least a weak sense of a correlation between poetry and human possibility that cannot be realized by poems. The poet, by his very claim to be a maker of poems, is therefore both an embarrassment and accusation.

Most of the books of erotic poetry available today are either too old or are big anthologies covering the same poets and poems. There is a lack of new and original work. Most of us have read something from Ovid, Sappho, Shakespeare, the ancient Greeks, the Romans, or from the Kama Sutra. But love is a theme that should be celebrated with freshness.

most of the times it’s the hardest to say what I love more you or your memory.

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts.

MOST DAYS MY LIFE CAN BE SUMMED UP IN MOVIE QUOTES AND HIP HOP AND R&B LYRICS

Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour.

Most people ignore most poetry because poetry ignores most people.

Most people in this country are looking for literature that is useful. They feel that just exploring their feelings is good enough - they should be reading about leveraged buy-outs or how to get thin. We live in a culture that is so absolutely, madly focused on commercialism and on creating money and completely turned away from any other kind of creative value. People don't generally turn to poetry unless they're bereaved or have fallen in love. Or in adolescence, when their feelings are very strong and turbulent. I think most of us are dying for lack of spirit in this culture.

Mother Earth, one of my absolute favorite places......where the sounds, the energy, the beauty and the Life pounds into your every fiber of being, letting you Know that you are alive. I will always respect and honor this gift of creation that we call our home.

MOTHER IS WATER I wish I could Shower your head with flowers And anoint your feet with my tears, For I know I have caused you So much heartache, frustration and despair – Throughout my youthful years. I wish I could give you The remainder of my life To add to yours, Or simply erase The lines on your face, And mend all that has been torn. For next to God, You are the fire That has given light To the flame in each of my eyes. You are the fountain That nourished my growth, And from your chalice – Gave me life. Without the wetness of your love, The fragrance of your water, Or the trickling sounds of Your voice, I shall always feel thirsty.

Most of my friends like words too well. They set them under the blinding light of the poem and try to extract every possible connotation from each of them, every temporary pun, every direct or indirect connection - as if a word could become an object by mere addition of consequences. Others pick up words from the streets, from their bars, from their offices and display them proudly in their poems as if they were shouting, "See what I have collected from the American language. Look at my butterflies, my stamps, my old shoes!" What does one do with all this crap?

Mother Teresa said, "To keep a lamp burning we have to keep oil in it." Now, I am no Mother Teresa, but... I am not even dealing oil because when you mix it with water, well, you know... We all know: I love with kerosene.

Mountain may want to be with the stream To climb the hills perhaps a river's dream What we want exactly we may never know Flame of fire might love to melt with the snow

Mountains clothed in snow Robed in white against blue skies Mirrored in the lake.

Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie-- Dust unto dust-- The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die As all men must; Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell-- Too strong to strive-- Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, Buried alive; But rather mourn the apathetic throng-- The cowed and the meek-- Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong And dare not speak!