Best 1872 quotes in «poem quotes» category

Wind and breeze are separated today Crimson twilight denies to fade away Grass blades turn brown to match the soil We pretend to smile at every turmoil

Wings can only fly as long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax cries for ignitable wick Jealous people burn to make your heart feel sick

WINTER'S GHOST: Autumn moon incautious in the dark river Winter’s ghost walks with a covered face and silver bones wait in all animals to be bone cloth upon her shoulder wait for her happiness in that they are silver

With a strange smile and slightly bending her face she looked up at the sky and noticed the birds sitting in silence and a horse with the broken legs and the strange part was that she saw herself in a tigress that is lonely and lost with a sly sheep

With a metal heart I came to this life, My head was a crucible, full of elixir. Pearl by pearl My heart was poured, Drop by drop My head was splashed. The world was entirely a magnet.

With a ring around the rosary And a pocket full of crosses Ashes to ashes They'll all fall down

With a generous heart, With a mind that sounds the depths of existence, Your dreams will not die, Your thoughts will not fade. If there is a divine light in your soul, Hold it up as a torch And from your tiny kitchen You will be able to see the great world.

With crystal chords I play love's very tune In soft falling rain that allays my wound

With life that is an endless, lasting fight, With kindling flames that rage in blood and heart, With sun and moon, with morning and with night, And with the sky's vast cupola, how to part?

Without sound, There would be no music. And without music, There would be no life. And without a life force, There would be no matter. But it does not matter - Because what is matter, If there is no light?

Without the wetness of your love, The fragrance of your water, Or the trickling sounds of Your voice, I shall always feel thirsty.

With people you can never tell, Will they have changed when next we meet? But here in my dear old home at least, The plums still smell as sweet. / 人はいさ 心も知らず ふるさとは 花ぞ昔の 香ににほひける

With ravenous passion and reckless ambition he forged his thoughts into words, obsessed with the notion that dying would not be the last thing he would do.

With the need for the self in the time of another / I left my seaport grim and dear / knowing good work could be made / in the state governed by both Hope and Despair.

with this love I vow to show you the moon when we go over it at noon we'll make love for it's something good that we do for one another in full

With the rumble of the waterfall in the distance, I slipped into sleep and dreamed of a red-haired girl holding a posy of white flowers. The words of Mr. Noyes's poem crept from the pages of my picture book and tiptoed into my mind. "Then you blow your magic vial, / Shape it like a crescent moon, / Set it up and make your trial, / Singing, 'Fairies, ah, come soon!

With you Every kiss is a poem Every touch is narrative prose Our love is an unending saga Infinite Eternal.

Woman How pliable she be Ever-bending never-breaking Woman

Wolf Speaks: I wander mountains high and river pathways I seek cover in deep forests from hunters’ cruel knives Yet my cousins warm your hearts with love and loyalty Love me also even though you do not command my freedom path

Wonderful You Love you for being so meaningful, i my meaningless life, Love you for being so true, even when my life was a complete lie, Love you for being so strong, when i was weak within, Love you for being so natural, when i was being artificial, Love you for being an end to my pain , Love you for being the strength that i regain, Love you for all the colors in life, Love you for all that matters in my life, Love you for being my power, Love you for being my saver,

WONDERLAND It is a person's unquenchable thirst for wonder That sets them on their initial quest for truth. The more doors you open, the smaller you become. The more places you see and the more people you meet, The greater your curiosity grows. The greater your curiosity, the more you will wander. The more you wander, the greater the wonder. The more you quench your thirst for wonder, The more you drink from the cup of life. The more you see and experience, the closer to truth you become. The more languages you learn, the more truths you can unravel. And the more countries you travel, the greater your understanding. And the greater your understanding, the less you see differences. And the more knowledge you gain, the wider your perspective, And the wider your perspective, the lesser your ignorance. Hence, the more wisdom you gain, the smaller you feel. And the smaller you feel, the greater you become. The more you see, the more you love -- The more you love, the less walls you see. The more doors you are willing to open, The less close-minded you will be. The more open-minded you are, The more open your heart. And the more open your heart, The more you will be able to Send and receive -- Truth and TRUE Unconditional LOVE.

Words are fossilized butterfly wings, pretty to look at sometimes, but only good for Museums. I want to miserably burn down the Museums.

Words fail to describe what i feel anymore. Let me be numb for a while, let me be sore.

Worry not if you are in darkness and the void sucks you in further. This is not the place we go to die. It’s where we are born and our stories begin.

Would you come back if I turned my tears into hurricanes and named them after you?

Would it be enough to rock on a stormless sea with each our separate memories tuned to the state of the sinking sun?

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction. And you a woman of lies and deceit, stumbling forward on two left feet. You are an exquisite figurine of an incomprehensible place, While I, a soldier of my cause, my race. A single sip of you would satiate thirst, hunger and empty. Yet, you stand unmoved, comfortable knowing you could stave desires plenty. To my heart, you are known as 'shatter.' Between saint and sin, you are the latter. End, not even my finest words will matter. The still, the silence, even then, you are famine to my soul. My chest lacks certain weight now; I simply wish to be whole. Now, I stand before you broken, humbled and so bare, Only to see your infinite eyes brimming with no care. Your heart is a cauldron that burns darkest fuel. And I a remnant of smog, the overly-bitter fool. The man of fiction stumbles forward on two left feet, The woman of lies weaves words of conviction and deceit.

Write it as easy as you think about the difficulty

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.

Written soul is called poetry

Wrote you a poem or two. You didn’t enjoy them, but I did for you.

WU WEI flow of Life governed by Tao flow of change spontaneous natural effortless acting through non-action connecting with Earth and Moon and Sun through being not inert or lazy or passive but swimming swiftly within the current merging Life with Tao quiet and watchful not-interfering receptive alert directly connected acting without action trusting detached without desire spontaneous natural effortless Living

Xerxes, I read, ‘halted his unwieldy army for days that he might contemplate to his satisfaction’ the beauty of a single sycamore. You are Xerxes in Persia. Your army spreads on a vast and arid peneplain…you call to you all your sad captains, and give the order to halt. You have seen the tree with the lights in it, haven’t you? You must have. Xerxes buffeted on a plain, ambition drained in a puff. Your men are bewildered…there is nothing to catch the eye in this flatness, nothing but a hollow, hammering sky, a waste of sedge in the lee of windblown rocks, a meager ribbon of scrub willow tracing a slumbering watercourse…and that sycamore. You saw it; you will stand rapt and mute, exalted, remembering or not remembering over a period of days to shade your head with your robe. “He had its form wrought upon a medal of gold to help him remember it the rest of his life.” We all ought to have a goldsmith following us around. But it goes without saying, doesn’t it, Xerxes, that no gold medal worn around your neck will bring back the glad hour, keep those lights kindled so long as you live, forever present? Pascal saw it; he grabbed pen and paper and scrawled the one word, and wore it sewn in his shirt the rest of his life. I don’t know what Pascal saw. I saw a cedar. Xerxes saw a sycamore.

Yawn... I believe that I love sleep much more than anybody I’ve ever met. I have the ability to sleep for 2 or 3 days and nights. I will go to bed at any given moment. I often confused my girlfriends this way— say it would be about onethirty in the afternoon: “well, I’m going to bed now, I’m going to sleep…” most of them wouldn’t mind, they would go to bed with me thinking I was hinting for sex but I would just turn my back and snore off. this, of course, could explain why so many of my girlfriends left me. as for doctors, they were never any help: “listen, I have this desire to go to bed and sleep, almost all the time. what is wrong with me?” “do you get enough exercise?” “yes…” “are you getting enough nourishment?” “yes…” they always handed me a prescription which I threw away between the office and the parking lot. it’s a curious malady because I can’t sleep between 6 p.m. and midnight. it must occur after midnight and when I arise it can never be before noon. and should the phone ring say at 10:30 a.m. I go into a mad rage don’t even ask who the caller is scream into the phone: “WHAT ARE YOU CALLING ME FOR AT THIS HOUR!” hang up… every person, I suppose, has their eccentricities but in an effort to be normal in the world’s eye they overcome them and therefore destroy their special calling. I’ve kept mine and do believe that they have lent generously to my existence. I think it’s the main reason I decided to become a writer: I can type anytime and sleep when I damn well please.

Ya got cigarettes?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, “I got cigarettes.” “Matches?” she asks. “Enough to burn Rome.” “Whiskey?” “Enough whiskey for a Mississippi River of pain.” “You drunk?” “Not yet.

YEN What happens if you take a cup? Put it to your lips. A cup of desire. Of dazzling colour. Of intoxicating aroma. You can't resist. Drink. And in the bottom of the cup. There is a fish. And the fish says "You have uncovered me! Now I am condemned. To die." What happens if you find a box? 35mm by 35mm exactly. And are curious. You open it quickly. Of course. And inside there is an eye. And the eye seems to think that the box is its exclusive property. And fixes you with a terrifying glare. What happens if you catch a soft sound? A voice whispering in the air. Above the tree tops. And you can't quite hear what it is saying. But you have to listen. So you float up. Then you find you can't come down again. When the conversation is finished.

Yes, I know," Isadora said, and then read her poem, leaning forward so Carmelita Spats would not overhear: "I would rather eat a bowl of vampire bats than spend an hour with Carmelita Spats." The Baudelaires giggled and then covered their mouths so nobody would know they were laughing at Carmelita. "That was great," Klaus said. "I like the part about the bowl of bats.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. (From "The Ballad of Reading Gaol")

Yo no me callo Perdone el ciudadano esperanzado mi recuerdo de acciones miserables, que levantan los hombres del pasado. Yo predico un amor inexorable. Y no me importa perro ni persona: sólo el pueblo es en mí considerable: sólo la Patria a mí me condiciona. Pueblo y Patria manejan mi cuidado: Patria y pueblo destinan mis deberes y si logran matar lo levantado por el pueblo, es mi Patria la que muere. Es ése mi temor y mi agonía. Por eso en el combate nadie espere que se quede sin voz mi poesía.

Yo te he nombrado reina. Hay más altas que tú, más altas. Hay más puras que tú, más puras. Hay más bellas que tú, hay más bellas. Pero tú eres la reina. Cuando vas por las calles nadie te reconoce. Nadie ve tu corona de cristal, nadie mira la alfombra de oro rojo que pisas donde pasas, la alfombra que no existe. Y cuando asomas suenan todos los ríos en mi cuerpo, sacuden el cielo las campanas, y un himno llena el mundo. Sólo tú y yo, sólo tú y yo, amor mío, lo escuchamos.

You are a cool cemetery. You have the sinner’s grave You have the saint’s earth colliding You have all the beds narrow as a knife; as if a rally of tombstones to defend death. But you can’t really postpone the inauguration of my burial, can you? From the poem - Few Words to Cemetery

You are an Universe of Universes and your soul a source of songs.

you are as far as the moon and as close as it feels when I look upon it.

You are God. You want to make a forest, something to hold the soil, lock up energy, and give off oxygen. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to rough in a slab of chemicals, a green acre of goo? You are a man, a retired railroad worker who makes replicas as a hobby. You decide to make a replica of one tree, the longleaf pine your great-grandfather planted- just a replica- it doesn’t have to work. How are you going to do it? How long do you think you might live, how good is your glue? For one thing, you are going to have to dig a hole and stick your replica trunk halfway to China if you want the thing to stand up. Because you will have to work fairly big; if your replica is too small, you’ll be unable to handle the slender, three-sided needles, affix them in clusters of three in fascicles, and attach those laden fascicles to flexible twigs. The twigs themselves must be covered by “many silvery-white, fringed, long-spreading scales.” Are your pine cones’ scales “thin, flat, rounded at the apex?” When you loose the lashed copper wire trussing the limbs to the trunk, the whole tree collapses like an umbrella. You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder around the entire pine…and pour wet plaster over and inside the pine. Now open the walls, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air. You are a chloroplast moving in water heaved one hundred feet above ground. Hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen in a ring around magnesium…you are evolution; you have only begun to make trees. You are god- are you tired? Finished?

You are enough, a thousand times enough.

You are like a rose Soft, glowing and evolving It’s time for you To let go of the deadly thorns Never trust The guy who claims He misses you but never puts In effort to actually Set plans with you Fall in love With someone Who helps you to fly high And not with someone Who cannot lift you up When you crash down You are like a rose Soft, glowing and evolving It’s time for you To let go of the deadly thorns

YOU ARE JUST You are not just for the right or left, but for what is right over the wrong. You are not just rich or poor, but always wealthy in the mind and heart. You are not perfect, but flawed. You are flawed, but you are just. You may just be conscious human, but you are also a magnificent reflection of God.

You are not white, but a rainbow of colors. You are not black, but golden. You are not just a nationality, but a citizen of the world. You are not just for the right or left, but for what is right over the wrong. You are not just rich or poor, but always wealthy in the mind and heart. You are not perfect, but flawed. You are flawed, but you are just. You may just be a conscious human, but you are also a magnificent reflection of God. THE CONSCIOUS HUMAN by Suzy Kassem Copyright 1993-1994 - A SPRING FOR WISDOM

You are in me The cry of the wounded beast And though always near me, I never reach you. I do not know who of us, Of the other, is the captive And I like to believe that you live Out of time Or that my boat can Land to your shore To be like the flower, Blooming, Freely.

You are not white, but a rainbow of colors. You are not black, but golden. You are not just a nationality, but a citizen of the world. You are not just for the right or left, but for what is right over the wrong. You are not just rich or poor, but always wealthy in the mind and heart. You are not perfect, but flawed. You are flawed, but you are just. You may just be conscious human, but you are also a magnificent reflection of God.