Poetry Quotes

 A great lie is like a great fish on dry land; it may fret and fling, and make a frightful bother, but it cannot hurt you. You have only to keep still and it will die of itself. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 A guidance counselor who has made a fetish of security, or who has unwittingly surrendered his thinking to economic determinism, may steer a youth away from his dream of becoming a poet, an artist, a musician or any other of thousands of things, because it offers no security, it does not pay well, there are no vacancies, it has no future. 
Author: Henry Merritt Wriston
Nationality: American
b. December 1889  - d.  December 1978
  
 A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human. 
Author: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Nationality: German
b. 28 August 1749  - d. 22 March 1832
  
 A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself. What one can be, one must be. 
Author: Abraham Maslow
Nationality: American
b. December 1908  - d.  December 1970
  
 A poet more than thirty years old is simply an overgrown child. 
Author: Henry Louis Mencken
Nationality: American
b. 12 September 1880  - d. 29 January 1956
  
 A poet ought not to pick nature's pocket. Let him borrow, and so borrow as to repay by the very act of borrowing. Examine nature accurately, but write from recollection, and trust more to the imagination than the memory. 
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Nationality: English
b. 21 October 1772  - d. 25 July 1834
  
 A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits. 
Author: Robert A. Heinlein
Nationality: American
b. 7 July 1907  - d. 8 May 1988
  
 A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose. 
Author: Samuel McChord Crothers
Nationality: American   
 A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A wonderful bird is the pelican, His bill will hold more that his belican. He can take in his beak Food enough for a week, But I'm damned if I see how the hellican. 
Author: Dixon Lanier Merritt
Nationality: American
b. December 1879  - d.  December 1972
  
 Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. 
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 Abruptness is an eloquence in parting, When spinning out the time is But the weaving of new sorrow. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption. 
Author: Wallace Stevens
Nationality: American
b. 02 October 1879  - d. 02 August 1955
  
 All a poet can do today is warn. 
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 All poetry is but a giving of names. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 All poets are mad. 
Author: Robert Burton
Nationality: English
b. 8 February 1577  - d. 25 January 1640
  
 All slang is metaphor, and all metaphor is poetry. 
Author: G. K. Chesterton
Nationality: English
b. 29 May 1874  - d. 16 June 1936
  
 Almost all the noblest things that have been achieved in the world, have been achieved by poor men; poor scholars, poor professional men, poor artisans and artists, poor philosophers, poets, and men of genius. 
Author: Albert Pike
Nationality: American
b. 29 December 1809  - d. 2 April 1891
  
 Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Late Fragment - And did you get what you wanted in this life even so? I did And what is it you wanted? To call myself beloved To feel myself beloved on the earth. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad. 
Author: Alexander Pope
Nationality: English
b. 21 May 1688  - d. 30 May 1744
  
 Art is a jealous mistress, and if a man have a genius for painting, poetry, music, architecture, or philosophy, he makes a bad husband and an ill provider. 
Author: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Nationality: American
b. 25 May 1803  - d. 27 April 1882
  
 As her sons have seen her: the mother in patriarchy: controlling, erotic, castrating, heart-suffering, guilt-ridden, and guilt-provoking; a marble brow, a huge breast, an avid cave; between her legs snakes, swamp-grass, or teeth; on her lap a helpless infant or a martyred son. She exists for one purpose: to bear and nourish the son. 
Author: Adrienne Rich
Nationality: American
b. 16 May 1929
  
 As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree' - probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on. 
Author: Woody Allen
Nationality: American
b. 1 December 1935
  
 Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay! Alas, I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time. 
Author: William Topaz McGonagall
Nationality: Scottish
b. March 1825  - d. 29 September 1902
  
 Belief, like any other moving body, follows the path of least resistance. Poet and satirist 
Author: Samuel Butler
Nationality: English
b. 4 December 1835  - d. 18 June 1902
  
 But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 By poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an illusion on the imagination; the art of doing by means of words, what the painter does by means of colours. 
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Nationality: English
b. 25 October 1800  - d. 28 December 1859
  
 Cash up front, and we have a deal. 
Author: Proverb
Nationality: English   
 Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection - We shall get ourselves rather disliked. 
Author: Ezra Pound
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1885  - d. 1 November 1972
  
 Cut quarrels out of literature, and you will have very little history or drama or fiction or epic poetry left. 
Author: Robert Staughton Lynd
Nationality: American
b. December 1892  - d.  December 1970
  
 Cut your losses and let your profits run. 
Author: Proverb
Nationality: American   
 Deceivers are the most dangerous members of society. They trifle with the best parts of our nature, and violate the most sacred obligations. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Each man carries within him the soul of a poet who died young. 
Author: Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve
Nationality: English
b. December 1804  - d.  December 1869
  
 Eloquence is the poetry of prose. 
Author: William Cullen Bryant
Nationality: American
b. 3 November 1794  - d. 12 June 1878
  
 Emotion is the surest arbiter of a poetic choice, and it is the priest of all supreme unions in the mind. 
Author: Max Forrester Eastman
Nationality: American
b. 04 January 1883  - d. 25 March 1969
  
 Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them. 
Author: Robert Graves
Nationality: English
b. 24 July 1895  - d. 07 December 1985
  
 Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events. 
Author: Adrienne Rich
Nationality: American
b. 16 May 1929
  
 Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me. 
Author: Sigmund Freud
Nationality: Austrian
b. 6 May 1856  - d. 23 September 1939
  
 Evil is unspectacular and always human And shares our bed and eats at our own table. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 For morning dreams, as poets tell, are true. 
Author: Michael Bruce
Nationality: Scottish
b. 27 March 1746  - d. 15 July 1767
  
 For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious attention than history. 
Author: Aristotle
Nationality: Greek
b. December 384  - d.  December 322
  
 For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature's light. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, a system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your neighbour's wife. 
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Nationality: English
b. 25 October 1800  - d. 28 December 1859
  
 From trial he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures - peace and health. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Geniuses are the luckiest of mortals because what they must do is the same as what they most want to do. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations. 
Author: Robert Browning
Nationality: English
b. 7 May 1812  - d. 12 December 1889
  
 God is the poet, men are but the actors. 
Author: Honoré de Balzac
Nationality: French
b. 20 May 1799  - d. 18 August 1850
  
 Habit with him was all the test of truth, 'It must be right: I've done it from my youth'. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 Half my life is full of sorrow, Half of joy, still fresh and new; One of these lives is a fancy, But the other one is true. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 Hark ye, Clinker, you are a most notorious offender. You stand convicted of sickness, hunger, wretchedness and want. 
Author: Tobias George Smollett
Nationality: Scottish
b. 19 March 1721  - d. 17 September 1771
  
 Have little care that Life is brief, And less that Art is long Success is in the silences Though Fame is in the song. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, And ease of heart her every look conveyed. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee that stings. 
Author: William Dean Howells
Nationality: American
b. 1 March 1837  - d. 11 May 1920
  
 Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtle; natural philosophy, deep; morals, grave; logic And rhetoric, able to contend. 
Author: Sir Francis Bacon
Nationality: English
b. 22 January 1561  - d. 9 April 1626
  
 History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Homer has taught all other poets the art of telling lies skillfully. 
Author: Aristotle
Nationality: Greek
b. December 384  - d.  December 322
  
 Honour the greatest poet. 
Author: Dante Alighieri
Nationality: Italian
b. 14 May 1265  - d. 13 September 1321
  
 How far high failure overleaps the bound of low successes. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Humor has justly been regarded as the finest perfection of poetic genius. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 Humour has justly been regarded as the finest perfection of poetic genius. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 I am very sure that any man of common understanding may, by culture, care, attention, and labour, make himself whatever he pleases, except a great poet. 
Author: Earl Philip Dormer Stanhope
Nationality: English
b. 22 September 1694  - d. 24 March 1773
  
 I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled poets to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean. 
Author: Socrates
Nationality: Greek
b. December 469  - d.  December 399
  
 I have a rendezvous with Death, At some disputed barricade, At midnight in some flaming town. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. 
Author: William Wordsworth
Nationality: English
b. 7 April 1770  - d. 23 April 1850
  
 I learned to trust my obsessions... One day while studying a Yeats poem I decided to write poetry the rest of my life. 
Author: Robert Elwood Bly
Nationality: American
b. 223 December 1926
  
 I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky; And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking. 
Author: John Edward Masefield
Nationality: English
b. 01 June 1878  - d. 12 May 1966
  
 I must study politics and war, that my sons may have the liberty to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain. 
Author: John Adams
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1735  - d. 4 July 1826
  
 I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes, For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. 
Author: John Edward Masefield
Nationality: English
b. 01 June 1878  - d. 12 May 1966
  
 I perceived, at the end of a certain time, that I was, for one reason or another, fit for nothing. So I decided to become a poet... It's a profession one can always take up, if one is a vagabond. 
Author: Victor Hugo
Nationality: French
b. December 1802  - d.  December 1885
  
 I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then should'st thou have mine? 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, Give me a light That I may tread safely into the Unknown. And he replied Go out into the Darkness And put your hand into the Hand of God That shall be to you Better than light And safer than the known way. 
Author: Minnie Louise Haskins
Nationality: English
b. 12 May 1875  - d.  December 1957
  
 I think a poem (also) is a dream, a dream which you are willing to share with the community. It happens a writer often doesn't understand a poem until some months after he's written it -- just as a dreamer doesn't understand a dream. Being a poet in the United States has meant for me years of confusion, blundering, and self-doubt. The confusion lies in not knowing whether I am writing in the American language or the English or, more exactly, how much of the musical power of Chaucer, Marvell, and Keats can be kept in free verse. Not knowing how to live, or even how to make a living, results in blunders. And the self-doubt comes from living in small towns. 
Author: Robert Elwood Bly
Nationality: American
b. 223 December 1926
  
 I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 I was a tiny bug. Now a mountain. I was left behind. Now honored at the head. You healed my wounded hunger and anger, and made me a poet who sings about joy. 
Author: Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi-Rumi
Nationality: Persian
b. 30 September 1207  - d. 17 December 1273
  
 I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry: that is prose = words in the best order; poetry = the best words in their best order. 
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Nationality: English
b. 21 October 1772  - d. 25 July 1834
  
 I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me; I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way. I'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you, To brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue; I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard, And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred. I'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me, Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be; I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon. I'm wishing at this time that I could but repay A portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way; And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be: I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 If poetry comes not naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 If you are of the opinion that the contemplation of suicide is sufficient evidence of a poetic nature, do not forget that actions speak louder than words. 
Author: Fran Lebowitz
Nationality: American
b. 27 October 1950
  
 If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not a poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. 
Author: Rainer Maria Rilke
Nationality: Austrian
b. 4 December 1875  - d. 29 December 1926
  
 In Australia, not reading poetry is the national pastime. 
Author: Phyllis McGinley
Nationality: American
b. 21 March 1905  - d. 22 February 1978
  
 In idle wishes fools supinely stay; Be there a will and wisdom finds the way. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 In its famous paradox, the equation of money and excrement, psychoanalysis becomes the first science to state what common sense and the poets have long known - that the essence of money is in its absolute worthlessness. 
Author: Norman O. Brown
Nationality: American
b. 25 September 1913  - d. 2 October 2002
  
 In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art of telling lies skillfully. 
Author: Aristotle
Nationality: Greek
b. December 384  - d.  December 322
  
 It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Language ought to be the joint creation of poets and manual workers. 
Author: George Orwell
Nationality: English
b. 25 June 1903  - d. 21 January 1950
  
 Laugh and be fat. 
Author: John Taylor
Nationality: English
b. December 1578  - d.  December 1653
  
 Lord of the far horizons, Give us the eyes to see Over the verge of the sundown The beauty that is to be. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage. Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of love. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Many brave men lived before Agamemnon; but all are overwhelmed in eternal night, unwept, unknown, because they lack a sacred poet. 
Author: Edward St. John Gorey
Nationality: American
b. 22 February 1925  - d. 15 April 2000
  
 May it not be that, just as we have faith in Him, God has to have faith in us and, considering the history of the human race so far, may it not be that faith is even more difficult for Him than it is for us? 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Memory is a man's real possession. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Money is a kind of poetry. 
Author: Wallace Stevens
Nationality: American
b. 02 October 1879  - d. 02 August 1955
  
 Most people enjoy the sight of their own handwriting as they enjoy the smell of their own farts. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song. 
Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nationality: English
b. 4 August 1792  - d. 8 July 1822
  
 Music is the poetry of the air. 
Author: Jean Paul Richter
Nationality: German
b. 21 March 1763  - d. 14 December 1825
  
 Music resembles poetry: In each are nameless graces which no methods teach And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
Author: Alexander Pope
Nationality: English
b. 21 May 1688  - d. 30 May 1744
  
 Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done;... her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden. 
Author: Sir Philip Sidney
Nationality: English
b. 30 November 1554  - d. 17 October 1586
  
 Neat Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had; his raptures were For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. 
Author: Michael Drayton
Nationality: English
b. December 1563  - d. 23 December 1631
  
 Never rail at the world, it is just as we make it, - We see not the flower if we sow not the seed; And as for ill-luck, why, it's just as we take it, - The heart that's in earnest no bars can impede. 
Author: Charles Swain
Nationality: English
b. December 1803  - d.  December 1874
  
 Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you. I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain. 
Author: John Adams
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1735  - d. 4 July 1826
  
 No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. 
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Nationality: English
b. 21 October 1772  - d. 25 July 1834
  
 Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness. 
Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne
Nationality: American
b. 4 January 1804  - d. 19 May 1864
  
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment. 
Author: George Augustas Sala
Nationality: English
b. 24 November 1828  - d. 08 December 1895
  
 Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day- That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear. And then he ran to her and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said- 'I'm not afraid, You'll shield me from all harm.' 'What makes the lamb love Mary so,' The little chldren cry; 'O, Mary loves the lamb you know,' The Teacher did reply, 'And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind.' 
Author: Sarah Josepha Hale
Nationality: American
b. 24 October 1788  - d. 30 April 1879
  
 Now is the age of anxiety. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 On Ludwig Leichhardt: What he could not conquer, he named: valleys, rivers, mountains. He was not an explorer but a poet. 
Author: Manfred Jurgensen
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1940
  
 One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given, Ready, too, to let them go. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 Only those in the last stage of disease could believe that children are true judges of character. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. 
Author: W. B. Yeats
Nationality: Irish
b. 13 June 1865  - d. 28 January 1939
  
 Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind. 
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Nationality: English
b. 25 October 1800  - d. 28 December 1859
  
 Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history. 
Author: Plato
Nationality: Greek
b. December 427  - d.  December 347
  
 Poetry is a comforting piece of fiction set to more or less lascivious music. 
Author: Henry Louis Mencken
Nationality: American
b. 12 September 1880  - d. 29 January 1956
  
 Poetry is a kind of ingenious nonsense. 
Author: Isaac Barrow
Nationality: English
b. October 1630  - d. 4 May 1677
  
 Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat. 
Author: Robert Frost
Nationality: American
b. 26 March 1874  - d. 29 January 1963
  
 Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread. 
Author: Pablo Neruda
Nationality: Chilean
b. December 1904  - d.  December 1973
  
 Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular. 
Author: Aristotle
Nationality: Greek
b. December 384  - d.  December 322
  
 Poetry is like painting. 
Author: Edward St. John Gorey
Nationality: American
b. 22 February 1925  - d. 15 April 2000
  
 Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. 
Author: T. S. Eliot
Nationality: British
b. 26 September 1888  - d. 4 January 1965
  
 Poetry is nothing but healthy speech. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate. 
Author: John Denham
Nationality: English
b. December 1615  - d. 10 March 1669
  
 Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. 
Author: Edmund Burke
Nationality: Irish
b. 12 January 1729  - d. 9 July 1797
  
 Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. 
Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nationality: English
b. 4 August 1792  - d. 8 July 1822
  
 Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. 
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Nationality: American
b. 19 January 1809  - d. 7 October 1849
  
 Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame. 
Author: Wallace Stevens
Nationality: American
b. 02 October 1879  - d. 02 August 1955
  
 Poetry is the utterance of deep and heart-felt truth-the true poet is very near the oracle. 
Author: Edwin Hubbel Chapin
Nationality: American
b. 29 December 1814  - d. 26 December 1880
  
 Poetry is truth dwelling in beauty. 
Author: Robert Gilfillan
Nationality: Scottish
b. 7 July 1798  - d. 4 December 1850
  
 Poetry is what gets lost in translation. 
Author: Robert Frost
Nationality: American
b. 26 March 1874  - d. 29 January 1963
  
 Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevance. 
Author: M C. Richards
Nationality: American   
 Poetry puts the infinite within the finite. 
Author: Robert Browning
Nationality: English
b. 7 May 1812  - d. 12 December 1889
  
 Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly. 
Author: T. S. Eliot
Nationality: British
b. 26 September 1888  - d. 4 January 1965
  
 Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 Poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 Poetry we will call Musical Thought. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 Poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and parent of most. 
Author: William Congreve
Nationality: English
b. 24 January 1670  - d. 19 January 1729
  
 Poetry, the genre of purest beauty, was born of a truncated woman: her head severed from her body with a sword, a symbolic penis. 
Author: Andrea Dworkin
Nationality: American
b. 26 September 1946  - d. 9 April 2005
  
 Poetry's a mere drug, Sir. 
Author: George Farquhar
Nationality: Irish
b. December 1678  - d. 29 April 1707
  
 Poets are born, not made. 
Author: Anonymous
Nationality: Irish   
 Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present. 
Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nationality: English
b. 4 August 1792  - d. 8 July 1822
  
 Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. 
Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nationality: English
b. 4 August 1792  - d. 8 July 1822
  
 Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. 
Author: G. K. Chesterton
Nationality: English
b. 29 May 1874  - d. 16 June 1936
  
 Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand. 
Author: Plato
Nationality: Greek
b. December 427  - d.  December 347
  
 Prose - words in their best order; Poetry - the best words in their best order. 
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Nationality: English
b. 21 October 1772  - d. 25 July 1834
  
 Pull down thy vanity Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail, A swollen magpie is a fitful sun, Half black half white Not knowst you wing from tail' Pull down thy vanity. 
Author: Ezra Pound
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1885  - d. 1 November 1972
  
 They darted down and rose up like a wave Or buzzed impetuously as before; One would have thought the corpse was held a slave To living by the life it bore! 
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Sad is his lot, who, once at least in his life, has not been a poet.  
Author: Alphonse de Lamartine
Nationality: French
b. 21 October 1790  - d. 28 February 1869
  
 Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys, Are never valued till they make a noise. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 See the Wretch, that long has tost On the thorny bed of Pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 SERVICE. A beautiful word fallen upon bad days. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, To comfort, To coax And, above all things else, Be accomplished at seeing My jokes. 
Author: Sir Owen Seaman
Nationality: British
b. 18 September 1861  - d. 2 February 1936
  
 She that with poetry is won Is but a desk to write upon. 
Author: Samuel Butler
Nationality: English
b. 4 December 1835  - d. 18 June 1902
  
 Silence is more musical than any song. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place The place assigned me here. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 So that at Christmas, man is almost what God sent him here to be. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd. 
Author: Thomas Mann
Nationality: German
b. 06 June 1875  - d. 12 August 1955
  
 Some have at first for Wits then Poets past, Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last. 
Author: Alexander Pope
Nationality: English
b. 21 May 1688  - d. 30 May 1744
  
 Some thirty inches from my nose The frontier of my Person goes, And all the untilled air between Is private pagus or demesne. Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes I beckon you to fraternize, Beware of rudely crossing it; I have no gun, but I can spit. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Spring is when life's alive in everything. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare The truth thou hast, that all may share; Be bold, proclaim it everywhere: They only live who dare. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Success is a rare paint, hides all the ugliness. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Take eloquence and wring its neck. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Television is a corporate vulgarity. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. 
Author: Ezra Pound
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1885  - d. 1 November 1972
  
 The bad poet is usually unconscious when he ought to be concious, and concious when he ought to be unconcious. 
Author: T. S. Eliot
Nationality: British
b. 26 September 1888  - d. 4 January 1965
  
 The best is the best, though a hundred judges have declared it so; nor had it been any feat to search out and insert the second-rate merely because it happened to be recondite. 
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 The best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 The class distinctions proper to a democratic society are not those of rank or money, still less, as is apt to happen when these are abandoned, of race, but of age. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The eye is the notebook of the poet. 
Author: James Russell Lowell
Nationality: American
b. 22 February 1819  - d. 12 August 1891
  
 The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot. 
Author: Salvador Dali
Nationality: Spanish
b. 11 May 1904  - d. 23 January 1989
  
 The freedom of poetic license. 
Author: Marcus Tullius Cicero
Nationality: Roman
b. 3 January 106  - d. 7 December 43
  
 The game, he said, is never lost till won. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 The greatest benefit we owe to the artist, whether painter, poet, or novelist, is the extension of our sympathies. 
Author: George Eliot
Nationality: English
b. 22 November 1819  - d. 22 December 1880
  
 The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world... To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion all in one. 
Author: Walter Winchell
Nationality: American
b. 7 April 1897  - d. 20 February 1972
  
 The job of the poet is to render the world-to see it and report it without loss, without perversion. No poet ever talks about feelings. Only sentimental people do. 
Author: Mark Van Doren
Nationality: American
b. 13 June 1894  - d. 10 December 1972
  
 The lion is the beast to fight: He leaps along the plain, And if you run with all your might, He runs with all his mane. 
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 The little girl had the making of a poet in her who, being told to be sure of her meaning before she spoke, said: 'How can I know what I think till I see what I say? 
Author: Graham Wallas
Nationality: English
b. 31 May 1858  - d. 09 August 1932
  
 The long sobbings of autumn violins wound my heart with a monotonous languor. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. 
Author: William Shakespeare
Nationality: English
b. December 1564  - d. 23 April 1616
  
 The master-secret in fighting is to strike once, But in the right place. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 The most important thing for poets to do is to write as little as possible. 
Author: T. S. Eliot
Nationality: British
b. 26 September 1888  - d. 4 January 1965
  
 The new church will be founded on moral science. Poets, artists, musicians, philosophers, will be its prophet teachers. The noblest literature of the world will be its Bible - love and labor its holy sacraments - and instead of worshiping one savior, we will gladly build an altar in the heart for every one who has suffered for humanity. 
Author: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Nationality: American
b. 25 May 1803  - d. 27 April 1882
  
 The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one, Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one, Yet the light of a whole life dies When its love is done. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 The Old Masters. About suffering they were never wrong. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The poet and the dreamer are distinct, Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes. The one pours out a balm upon the world, The other vexes it. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind. 
Author: Virginia Woolf
Nationality: English
b. 25 January 1882  - d. 28 March 1941
  
 The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing. 
Author: Walt Whitman
Nationality: American
b. 31 May 1819  - d. 26 March 1892
  
 The poet must be alike polished by an intercourse with the world as with the studies of taste; one to whom labour is negligence, refinement a science, and art a nature. 
Author: Isaac D'Israeli
Nationality: English
b. 11 May 1766  - d. 19 January 1848
  
 The poet ranks far below the painter in the representation of visible things, and far below the musician in that of invisible things. 
Author: Leonardo da Vinci
Nationality: Italian
b. 15 April 1452  - d. 02 May 1519
  
 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. 
Author: William Shakespeare
Nationality: English
b. December 1564  - d. 23 April 1616
  
 The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, He asked for bread, and he received a stone. 
Author: Samuel Wesley
Nationality: English
b. 17 November 1662  - d. 05 April 1735
  
 The poet's function is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but the kind of thing that might happen, i.e. what is possible as being probable or necessary. 
Author: Aristotle
Nationality: Greek
b. December 384  - d.  December 322
  
 The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme. 
Author: Stéphane Mallarmé
Nationality: French
b. 18 March 1842  - d. 9 September 1898
  
 The poets did well to conjoin music and medicine, because the office of medicine is but to tune the curious harp of man's body. 
Author: Sir Francis Bacon
Nationality: English
b. 22 January 1561  - d. 9 April 1626
  
 The poets' scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death. 
Author: Edmund Spenser
Nationality: English
b. December 1552  - d. 13 January 1599
  
 The power is yours, but not the sight; You see not upon what you tread; You have the ages for your guide, But not the wisdom to be led. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 The productions of all arts are kinds of poetry and their craftsmen are all poets. 
Author: Plato
Nationality: Greek
b. December 427  - d.  December 347
  
 The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words. 
Author: Stéphane Mallarmé
Nationality: French
b. 18 March 1842  - d. 9 September 1898
  
 The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true Poet, and of the Devil's party without knowing it. 
Author: William Blake
Nationality: English
b. 28 November 1757  - d. 12 August 1827
  
 The Somewhat which we name but cannot know. Even as we name a star and only see Its quenchless flashings forth, which ever show and ever hide him, and which are not he. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 The tender passion is much overrated by the poets. They have their living to earn, poor fellows. 
Author: Ashley Dukes
Nationality: English
b. December 1885  - d.  December 1959
  
 The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life. . . . The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds -- how many human aspirations are realised in their free, holiday-lives -- and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song! 
Author: John Burroughs
Nationality: American
b. 3 April 1837  - d. 29 March 1921
  
 The world is full of poetry.- The air is living with its spirit; And the waves dance to the music of its melodies, And sparkle in its brightness. 
Author: James Percival
Nationality: American
b. December 1795  - d.  December 1856
  
 The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. 
Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Nationality: American
b. 27 February 1807  - d. 24 March 1882
  
 There certainly is some connection between Love and Music and Poetry. I never had the least thought or inclination of turning Poet till I once got heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. 
Author: Robert Burns
Nationality: Scottish
b. 25 January 1759  - d. 21 July 1796
  
 There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 There is another old poet whose name I do not now remember who said, Truth is the daughter of Time. 
Author: Aulus Gellius
Nationality: Roman
b. December 125  - d.  December 180
  
 There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. 
Author: Emily Dickinson
Nationality: American
b. 10 December 1830  - d. 15 May 1886
  
 There is only beauty - and it has only one perfect expression - poetry. All the rest is a lie - except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind, friendship. For me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because its sensual delight falls back deliciously in my soul. 
Author: Stéphane Mallarmé
Nationality: French
b. 18 March 1842  - d. 9 September 1898
  
 Thinking in its lower grades, is comparable to paper money, and in its higher forms it is a kind of poetry. 
Author: Henry Havelock Ellis
Nationality: British
b. 24 July 1859  - d. 03 October 1939
  
 This is the Night Mail crossing the Border Bringing the cheque and the postal order. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 This is what the painter, the poet, the speculative philosopher, and the natural scientists do, each in his own fashion. 
Author: Albert Einstein
Nationality: American
b. 14 March 1879  - d. 18 April 1955
  
 Time to me this truth has taught, ('Tis a treasure worth revealing) More offend from want of thought Than from any want of feeling.  
Author: Charles Swain
Nationality: English
b. December 1803  - d.  December 1874
  
 'Tis a mad world, my masters. 
Author: John Taylor
Nationality: English
b. December 1578  - d.  December 1653
  
 To him that you tell your secret you resign your liberty. 
Author: Proverb
Nationality: English   
 Today it is prosperity that is externally ugly ... we sit starving amidst our gold, the Midas of the Ages. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 True religion is the poetry of the heart; it has enchantments useful to our manners; it gives us both happiness and virtue. 
Author: Joseph Joubert
Nationality: French
b. 7 May 1754  - d. 4 May 1824
  
 Wake up look around memorise what you see it may be gone tomorrow everything changes. Someday there will be nothing but what is remembered there may be no-one to remember it. 
Author: Michael Dransfield
Nationality: Australian
b. 12 September 1948  - d. 20 April 1973
  
 We all have some of the doctor, poet and fool in us. 
Author: Anonymous
Nationality: Australian   
 We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love... and then we return home. 
Author: Aboriginal Proverb
Nationality: Australian   
 We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. 
Author: Robin Williams
Nationality: American
b. 21 July 1951
  
 We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us - and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 We haven't all had the good fortune to be ladies; we haven't all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies, we stand on common ground. 
Author: Mark Twain
Nationality: American
b. 30 November 1835  - d. 21 April 1910
  
 We milk the cow of the world, and as we do We whisper in her ear, 'You are not true'. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. 
Author: William Wordsworth
Nationality: English
b. 7 April 1770  - d. 23 April 1850
  
 We think so because other people think so, Or because - or because - after all we do think so, Or because we were told so, and think we must think so, Or because we once thought so, and think we still think so, Or because having thought so, we think we will think so. 
Author: Henry Sidgwick
Nationality: English
b. 31 May 1838  - d. 28 August 1900
  
 What are facts but compromises? A fact merely marks the point where we have agreed to let investigation cease. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 What you are thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.Our faith comes in moments, yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. 394 1030 Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882 American Essayist, poet and philosopher Our faith comes in moments, yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. 763 troy casey bagyesh patel 
Author: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Nationality: American
b. 25 May 1803  - d. 27 April 1882
  
 When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs I am compelled to conclude That man is the superior animal. When I consider the curious habits of man I confess, my friend, I am puzzled. 
Author: Ezra Pound
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1885  - d. 1 November 1972
  
 When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgement. 
Author: John F. Kennedy
Nationality: American
b. 29 May 1917  - d. 22 November 1963
  
 While pensive Poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. 
Author: Alexander Pope
Nationality: English
b. 21 May 1688  - d. 30 May 1744
  
 While we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil. 
Author: John Taylor
Nationality: English
b. December 1578  - d.  December 1653
  
 Who bravely dares, must sometimes risk a fall. 
Author: Tobias George Smollett
Nationality: Scottish
b. 19 March 1721  - d. 17 September 1771
  
 With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. 
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Nationality: American
b. 19 January 1809  - d. 7 October 1849
  
 Yes, the poetry of earth is never dead... the poetry of earth is ceasing never. 
Author: John Keats
Nationality: English
b. 31 October 1795  - d. 23 February 1821
  
 You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose. 
Author: Mario Cuomo
Nationality: American
b. 15 June 1932
  
 You cannot hope To bribe or twist, Thank God! The British journalist. But, seeing what The man will do Unbribed, there's No occasion to. 
Author: Humbert Wolfe
Nationality: English
b. 5 January 1886  - d. 5 January 1940
  
 You don't have to suffer to be a poet; adolescence is enough suffering for anyone. 
Author: John Ciardi
Nationality: American
b. 24 June 1916  - d. 30 March 1986
  
 You know I know you know I know you know. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some with you. 
Author: Joseph Joubert
Nationality: French
b. 7 May 1754  - d. 4 May 1824
  
 You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. 
Author: Joseph Joubert
Nationality: French
b. 7 May 1754  - d. 4 May 1824
  
 The normal present connects the past and the future through limitation. Contiguity results, crystallization by means of solidification. There also exists, however, a spiritual present that identifies past and future through dissolution, and this mixture is the element, the atmosphere of the poet. 
Author: Novalis
Nationality: German
b. 02 May 1772  - d. 25 March 1801
  
 And my father was a comic. He could play any musical instrument. He loved to perform. He was a wonderfully comedic character. He had the ability to dance and sing and charm and analyze poetry.  
Author: Lynn Johnston
Nationality: Canadian
b. 28 May 1947
  
 A poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.  
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 A poet, by his economy in Barber's Bills-and by his frequent glances at the rising moon.  
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness. 
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's.  
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 My subject is war, and the pity of war. The poetry is in the pity. 
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both. 
Author: Wilfred Owen
Nationality: English
b. 18 March 1893  - d. 04 November 1918
  
 The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it. 
Author: Sylvia Plath
Nationality: American
b. 27 October 1932  - d. 11 February 1963
  
 Poetry is the exquisite expression of exquisite expressions. 
Author: Joseph Roux
Nationality: French
b. December 1834  - d.  December 1886
  
 Science is for those who learn, poetry is for those who know. 
Author: Joseph Roux
Nationality: French
b. December 1834  - d.  December 1886
  
 Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, there is no reason either in football or in poetry why the two should not meet in a man's life if he has the weight and cares about the words. 
Author: Archibald MacLeish
Nationality: American
b. 7 May 1892  - d. 20 April 1982
  
 Journalism wishes to tell what it is that has happened everywhere as though the same things had happened for every man. Poetry wishes to say what it is like for any man to be himself in the presence of a particular occurrence as though only he were alone there.  
Author: Archibald MacLeish
Nationality: American
b. 7 May 1892  - d. 20 April 1982
  
 Journalism is concerned with events, poetry with feelings. Journalism is concerned with the look of the world, poetry with the feel of the world. 
Author: Archibald MacLeish
Nationality: American
b. 7 May 1892  - d. 20 April 1982
  
 To separate journalism and poetry, therefore-history and poetry-to set them up at opposite ends of the world of discourse, is to separate seeing from the feel of seeing, emotion from the acting of emotion, knowledge from the realization of knowledge. 
Author: Archibald MacLeish
Nationality: American
b. 7 May 1892  - d. 20 April 1982
  
 In Flanders fields, the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below... We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields... Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands, we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields... 
Author: Lieutenant Colonel John Alexander McCrae
Nationality: Canadian
b. 30 November 1872  - d. 28 January 1918
  
 I am the Empire at the end of the decadence. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Tears fall in my heart like the rain on the town. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 The poet is a madman lost in adventure. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 A poet dares be just so clear and no clearer. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring. 
Author: Elwyn Brooks White
Nationality: American
b. 11 July 1899  - d. 01 October 1985
  
 There may be more poetry than justice in poetic justice. 
Author: George Will
Nationality: American
b. 04 May 1941
  
 If sexual intercourse, as the poets tell us, began in 1963, it was another decade and a half before the American political system began to take notice. 
Author: Michael Kinsley
Nationality: American
b. 09 March 1951
  
 Art works because it appeals to certain faculties of the mind. Music depends on details of the auditory system, painting and sculpture on the visual system. Poetry and literature depend on language. 
Author: Steven Pinker
Nationality: Canadian
b. 18 September 1954
  
 Most of my life I have played a lot of famous people but most of them were dead so you have a poetic license. 
Author: Christopher Plummer
Nationality: Canadian
b. 13 December 1929
  
 None but a poet can write a tragedy. For tragedy is nothing less than pain transmuted into exaltation by the alchemy of poetry. 
Author: Edith Hamilton
Nationality: American
b. December 1867  - d.  December 1963
  
 If you are ambitious of climbing up to the difficult, and in a manner inaccessible, summit of the Temple of Fame, your surest way is to leave on one hand the narrow path of Poetry, and follow the narrower track of Knight-Errantry, which in a trice may raise you to an imperial throne. 
Author: Miguel de Cervantes
Nationality: Spanish
b. 29 September 1547  - d. 23 April 1616
  
 For instance, a man who works well with words might work as a writer and as a poet and as a lyricist. But if he tried to work in sculpture, he might get absolutely nowhere. 
Author: Shel Silverstein
Nationality: American
b. 25 September 1930  - d. 10 May 1999
  
 I say things through poetry, I say them through song, I say them through drawing. 
Author: Shel Silverstein
Nationality: American
b. 25 September 1930  - d. 10 May 1999
  
 All poetry has to do is to make a strong communication. All the poet has to do is listen. The poet is not an important fellow. There will also be another poet. 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 I don't think Auden liked my poetry very much, he's very Anglican. 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 I may be smelly and I may be old, Rough in my pebbles, reedy in my pools, But where my fish float by I bless their swimming, And I like the people to bathe in me especially women. 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning. I was much further out than you thought, and not waving but drowning. I was much too far out all my life, And not waving but drowning. 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 I'm alive today, therefore I'm just as much a part of our time as everybody else. The times will just have to enlarge themselves to make room for me, won't they, and for everybody else 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 This Englishwoman is so refined, She has no bosom and no behind. 
Author: Stevie Smith
Nationality: British
b. 20 September 1902  - d. 07 March 1971
  
 I don't think you get to good writing unless you expose yourself and your feelings. Deep songs don't come from the surface; they come from the deep down. The poetry and the songs that you are suppose to write, I believe are in your heart. 
Author: Judy Collins
Nationality: American
b. December 1939
  
 I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests. 
Author: Pablo Neruda
Nationality: Chilean
b. December 1904  - d.  December 1973
  
 I attend a session to which new writers are invited. Many come: poets, writers, literary types. 
Author: Naguib Mahfouz
Nationality: Egyptian
b. 11 December 1911  - d. 30 August 2006
  
 I love Sufism as I love beautiful poetry, but it is not the answer. Sufism is like a mirage in the desert. It says to you, come and sit, relax and enjoy yourself for a while. 
Author: Naguib Mahfouz
Nationality: Egyptian
b. 11 December 1911  - d. 30 August 2006
  
 To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one. 
Author: Colette
Nationality: French
b. 28 January 1873  - d. 03 August 1954
  
 But Racine's extraordinary powers as a writer become still more obvious when we consider that besides being a great poet he is also a great psychologist. 
Author: Giles Lytton Strachey
Nationality: British
b. 01 March 1880  - d. 21 January 1932
  
 English dramatic literature is, of course, dominated by Shakespeare; and it is almost inevitable that an English reader should measure the value of other poetic drama by the standards which Shakespeare has already implanted in his mind. 
Author: Giles Lytton Strachey
Nationality: British
b. 01 March 1880  - d. 21 January 1932
  
 Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance. 
Author: Jean Anouilh
Nationality: French
b. 23 June 1910  - d. 3 October 1987
  
 Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. 
Author: Leonard Cohen
Nationality: Canadian
b. 21 September 1934
  
 But for a few phrases from his letters and an odd line or two of his verse, the poet walks gagged through his own biography. 
Author: John Updike
Nationality: American
b. 18 March 1932  - d. 27 January 2009
  
 I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time. 
Author: John Updike
Nationality: American
b. 18 March 1932  - d. 27 January 2009
  
 I have been singing and writing poetry, so you may know that I have been happy, alas, am I not a selfish creature to prize these enjoyments as I do. 
Author: Julia Ward Howe
Nationality: American
b. 27 May 1819  - d. 17 October 1910
  
 When Allen's work came into the world it really shocked everyone because his poetry comes from a very seductive place. 
Author: Kathy Acker
Nationality: American
b. 18 April 1947  - d. 30 November 1997
  
 The character and history of each child may be a new and poetic experience to the parent, if he will let it. 
Author: Margaret Fuller
Nationality: American
b. 23 May 1810  - d. 19 June 1850
  
 All that a critic, as critic, can give poets is the deadly encouragement that never ceases to remind them of how heavy their inheritance is. 
Author: Harold Bloom
Nationality: American
b. 11 July 1930
  
 I have never believed that the critic is the rival of the poet, but I do believe that criticism is a genre of literature or it does not exist. 
Author: Harold Bloom
Nationality: American
b. 11 July 1930
  
 The second, and I think this is the much more overt and I think it is the main cause, I have been increasingly demonstrating or trying to demonstrate that every possible stance a critic, a scholar, a teacher can take towards a poem is itself inevitably and necessarily poetic. 
Author: Harold Bloom
Nationality: American
b. 11 July 1930
  
 For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming. 
Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Nationality: American
b. 24 September 1896  - d. 21 December 1940
  
 Another one of the old poets, whose name has escaped my memory at present, called Truth the daughter of Time.  
Author: Aulus Gellius
Nationality: Roman
b. December 125  - d.  December 180
  
 Death most resembles a prophet who is without honor in his own land or a poet who is a stranger among his people. 
Author: Khalil Gibran
Nationality: American
b. 6 January 1883  - d. 10 April 1931
  
 Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary. 
Author: Khalil Gibran
Nationality: American
b. 6 January 1883  - d. 10 April 1931
  
 Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means smother it, but try your hand at verse. 
Author: Robert W. Service
Nationality: Canadian
b. 16 January 1874  - d. 11 September 1958
  
 Poetry - No definition of poetry is adequate unless it be poetry itself. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 You might as well think to go in pursuit of the rainbow, and embrace it on the next hill, as to embrace the whole of poetry even in thought. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 Every poet has trembled on the verge of science. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 The hidden significance of these fables which is sometimes thought to have been detected, the ethics running parallel to the poetry and history, are not so remarkable as the readiness with which they may be made to express a variety of truths. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 A true account of the actual is the rarest poetry, for common sense always takes a hasty and superficial view. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 Some old poet's grand imagination is imposed on us as adamantine everlasting truth, and God's own word! Pythagoras says, truly enough, "A true assertion respecting God, is an assertion of God"; but we may well doubt if there is any example of this in literature. 
Author: Henry David Thoreau
Nationality: American
b. 12 July 1817  - d. 6 May 1862
  
 I am two things: a warrior who follows Mavors lord of battle And a poet, who understands the gift of the muses love. 
Author: Archilochus
Nationality: Greek
b. December 680  - d.  December 645
  
 There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman. 
Author: Emile François Zola
Nationality: French
b. 2 April 1840  - d. 29 September 1902
  
 It is no use to grumble and complain; It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice; When God sorts out the weather and sends rain - Why, rain's my choice. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 The anger of a person who is strong, can always bide its time. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 The most essential factor is persistence - the determination never to allow your energy or enthusiasm to be dampened by the discouragement that must inevitably come. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 When I see a bird that walks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, I call that bird a duck. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 When you awaken some morning and hear that somebody or other has been discovered, you can put it down as a fact that he discovered himself years ago - since that time he has been toiling, working, and striving to make himself worthy of general discovery. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 I had attacked the British poets' nervous preference for gentility above all else. 
Author: Al Alvarez
Nationality: English
b. 5 August 1929
  
 Poets are the only people to whom love is not only a crucial, but an indispensable experience, which entitles them to mistake it for a universal one. 
Author: Hannah Arendt
Nationality: American
b. 14 October 1906  - d. 4 December 1975
  
 A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote. 
Author: Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Nationality: Russian
b. 18 July 1933
  
 In Russia all tyrants believe poets to be their worst enemies. 
Author: Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Nationality: Russian
b. 18 July 1933
  
 Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers 
Author: Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Nationality: Russian
b. 18 July 1933
  
 Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt, you hate. 
Author: William Wycherley
Nationality: English
b. December 1640  - d. 13 December 1715
  
 Poets, like whores, are only hated by each other. 
Author: William Wycherley
Nationality: English
b. December 1640  - d. 13 December 1715
  
 Poets are all who love, who feel great truths, And tell them; and the truth of truths is love. 
Author: Philip James Bailey
Nationality: English
b. 22 April 1816  - d. 6 September 1902
  
 Continuous, unflagging effort, persistence and determination will win. Let not the man be discouraged who has these. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 When men and woman die, as poets sung, his heart's the last part moves, her last, the tongue. 
Author: Benjamin Franklin
Nationality: American
b. 17 January 1706  - d. 17 April 1790
  
 Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference. 
Author: Mason Cooley
Nationality: American
b. December 1927  - d. 25 July 2002
  
 Dukakis is a little lacking in romance and poetry, you know? It's amazing; The one bland Greek in the world and he's running for president! Zorba the Clerk! 
Author: Mark Russell
Nationality: American
b. 23 August 1932
  
 A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet. 
Author: Orson Welles
Nationality: American
b. 6 May 1915  - d. 10 October 1985
  
 Poetry had far better imply things than preach them directly... in the open pulpit her voice grows hoarse and fails. 
Author: F. L. Lucas
Nationality: English
b. December 1894  - d.  December 1967
  
 It has often struck me that the relation of two important members of the social body to one another has never been sufficiently considered, or treated of, so far as I know, either by the philosopher or the poet. 
Author: James Payn
Nationality: English
b. 28 February 1830  - d. 25 March 1898
  
 I defer to all these other American poets who, for some reason, I both envy and admire. 
Author: Charles Olson
Nationality: American
b. 27 December 1910  - d. 10 January 1970
  
 I don't live for poetry. I live far more than anybody else does. 
Author: Charles Olson
Nationality: American
b. 27 December 1910  - d. 10 January 1970
  
 In order to master the unruly torrent of life the learned man meditates, the poet quivers, and the political hero erects the fortress of his will. 
Author: Jose Ortega y Gasset
Nationality: Spanish
b. 9 May 1883  - d. 18 October 1955
  
 Poetry is adolescence fermented, and thus preserved. 
Author: Jose Ortega y Gasset
Nationality: Spanish
b. 9 May 1883  - d. 18 October 1955
  
 The poet begins where the man ends. The man's lot is to live his human life, the poet's to invent what is nonexistent. 
Author: Jose Ortega y Gasset
Nationality: Spanish
b. 9 May 1883  - d. 18 October 1955
  
 Love is the poetry of the senses. 
Author: Honoré de Balzac
Nationality: French
b. 20 May 1799  - d. 18 August 1850
  
 A poem is a naked person. Some people say that I am a poet. 
Author: Bob Dylan
Nationality: American
b. 24 May 1941
  
 I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet. 
Author: Bob Dylan
Nationality: American
b. 24 May 1941
  
 I consider myself a poet first and a musician second. I live like a poet and I'll die like a poet. 
Author: Bob Dylan
Nationality: American
b. 24 May 1941
  
 I think when kids just see well-crafted poetry, it's just obtuse to them. It's hard to relate to. 
Author: Jewel
Nationality: American
b. 23 May 1974
  
 He was then in his fifty-fourth year, when even in the case of poets reason and passion begin to discuss a peace treaty and usually conclude it not very long afterwards. 
Author: Georg Cristoph Lichtenberg
Nationality: German
b. 1 July 1742  - d. 24 February 1799
  
 What makes our poetry so contemptible nowadays is its paucity of ideas. If you want to be read, invent. Who the Devil wouldn't like to read something new? 
Author: Georg Cristoph Lichtenberg
Nationality: German
b. 1 July 1742  - d. 24 February 1799
  
 Every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations that can be expressed or transcended only through poetry. 
Author: Jean-Paul Sartre
Nationality: French
b. 21 June 1905  - d. 15 April 1980
  
 Never the less, at the age of fifteen, having never seen a writer, a poet, a publisher or a magazine editor, and having only the vaguest ideas of procedure, I began working on the profession I had chosen. 
Author: Robert E. Howard
Nationality: American
b. 22 January 1906  - d. 11 June 1936
  
 I am not less poet; I am more conscious of all that I am, am not, and might become. 
Author: Jean Toomer
Nationality: American
b. 26 December 1894  - d. 30 March 1967
  
 Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others. 
Author: Antonin Artaud
Nationality: French
b. 4 September 1896  - d. 4 March 1948
  
 I don't like to boast, but I have probably skipped more poetry than any other person of my age and weight in this country. 
Author: Will Cuppy
Nationality: American
b. 23 August 1884  - d. 19 September 1949
  
 Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold. 
Author: Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
Nationality: American
b. 24 July 1900  - d. 10 March 1948
  
 The essence of poetry is will and passion. 
Author: William Hazlitt
Nationality: English
b. 10 April 1778  - d. 18 September 1830
  
 I have written a raucous valentine to a poet's dream and agony. 
Author: Ben Hecht
Nationality: American
b. 28 February 1894  - d. 18 April 1964
  
 Travellers, like poets, are mostly an angry race: by falling into a daily fit of passion, I proved to the governor and his son, who were profuse in their attentions, that I was in earnest 
Author: Richard Francis Burton
Nationality: English
b. 9 March 1821  - d. 20 October 1890
  
 Too many people in the modern world view poetry as a luxury, not a necessity like petrol. But to me it's the oil of life. 
Author: John Betjeman
Nationality: English
b. 28 August 1906  - d. 19 May 1984
  
 None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet. 
Author: Torquato Tasso
Nationality: Italian
b. 11 March 1544  - d. 25 April 1595
  
 Any healthy man can go without food for two days - but not without poetry. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 Always be a poet, even in prose. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 France is not poetic; she even feels, in fact, a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 If the poet has pursued a moral objective, he has diminished his poetic force. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without stopping! On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes. 
Author: Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Nationality: French
b. 9 April 1821  - d. 21 August 1867
  
 It is quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humor, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance. 
Author: D. H. Lawrence
Nationality: English
b. 11 September 1885  - d. 2 March 1930
  
 I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry. 
Author: John Donne
Nationality: English
b. 23 January 1572  - d. 31 March 1631
  
 The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong. 
Author: George Meredith
Nationality: English
b. 12 February 1828  - d. 18 May 1909
  
 I wish you would read a little poetry sometimes. Your ignorance cramps my conversation. 
Author: Anthony Hope
Nationality: English
b. 9 February 1863  - d. 8 July 1933
  
 All one's inventions are true, you can be sure of that. Poetry is as exact a science as geometry. 
Author: Gustave Flaubert
Nationality: French
b. 12 December 1821  - d. 8 May 1880
  
 Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry. 
Author: Gustave Flaubert
Nationality: French
b. 12 December 1821  - d. 8 May 1880
  
 Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry. 
Author: Gustave Flaubert
Nationality: French
b. 12 December 1821  - d. 8 May 1880
  
 The true poet for me is a priest. As soon as he dons the cassock, he must leave his family. 
Author: Gustave Flaubert
Nationality: French
b. 12 December 1821  - d. 8 May 1880
  
 I have never seen any poetry sweeter than thine, O Hafez, I swear it by that Koran which thou keepest in thy bosom. 
Author: Hafez
Nationality: Persian
b. December 1315  - d.  December 1390
  
 Happy the poet who with ease can steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe. 
Author: Nicholas Boileau-Despréaux
Nationality: French
b. December 1636  - d.  December 1711
  
 Like most poets, preachers, and metaphysicians, he burst into conclusion at a spark of evidence. 
Author: Finley Peter Dunne
Nationality: American
b. 10 July 1867  - d. 24 April 1936
  
 As civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. 
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Nationality: English
b. 25 October 1800  - d. 28 December 1859
  
 Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind. 
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Nationality: English
b. 25 October 1800  - d. 28 December 1859
  
 Money is everywhere but so is poetry. What we lack are the poets. 
Author: Frederico Fellini
Nationality: Italian
b. 20 January 1920  - d. 31 October 1993
  
 Romance like a ghost escapes touching; it is always where you are not, not where you are. The interview or conversation was prose at the time, but it is poetry in the memory. 
Author: George William Curtis
Nationality: American
b. 24 February 1824  - d. 31 August 1892
  
 O friend unseen, unborn, unknown, Student of our sweet English tongue, I never indulge in poetics - Unless I am down with rheumatics. 
Author: Quintus Ennius
Nationality: Roman
b. December 239  - d.  December 169
  
 No one could ad lib like Peter. You would think that it was all scripted, he was so poetic, but it wasn't. 
Author: Barbara Walters
Nationality: American
b. 25 September 1929
  
 Poetry proceeds from the totality of man, sense, imagination, intellect, love, desire, instinct, blood and spirit together. 
Author: Jacques Maritain
Nationality: French
b. 18 November 1882  - d. 28 April 1973
  
 The poet knows himself only on the condition that things resound in him, and that in him, at a single awakening, they and he come forth together out of sleep. 
Author: Jacques Maritain
Nationality: French
b. 18 November 1882  - d. 28 April 1973
  
 Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face - Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race, Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea, The brown eyes radiant with vivacity - There shines a brilliant and romantic grace, A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace Of passion and impudence and energy. Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist: A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, And something of the Shorter-Catechist. 
Author: William Ernest Henley
Nationality: English
b. 23 August 1849  - d. 11 July 1903
  
 I could have written as good prose and verse As the most beggarly poet of 'em all, Either Accrostique, Exordion, Epithalamions, Satyres, Epigrams, Sonnets in Doozens, or your Quatorzanies, In any rhyme, Masculine, Feminine, Or Sdrucciola, or cooplets, Blancke Verse: Y'are but bench-whistlers now a dayes to them That were in our times.... 
Author: George Chapman
Nationality: English
b. December 1557  - d. 12 May 1634
  
 Poetry has the virtue of being able to say twice as much as prose in half the time, and the drawback, if you do not give it your full attention, of seeming to say half as much in twice the time. 
Author: Christopher Fry
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1907  - d. 30 June 2005
  
 Shining through tears, Like April suns in showers, That labour to overcome The cloud that loads 'em. 
Author: Thomas Otway
Nationality: English
b. 3 March 1652  - d. 14 April 1685
  
 Of my broad felt made lighter, I cast my mantle broad, And stand, poet and fighter, To do and to record. I bow, I draw my sword... En garde! With steel and wit I play you at first abord... At the last line, I hit! 
Author: Edmond Eugène Alexis Rostand
Nationality: French
b. 1 April 1868  - d. 2 December 1918
  
 Is she not more than painting can express, Or youthful poets fancy when they love? 
Author: Nicholas Rowe
Nationality: English
b. December 1674  - d.  December 1718
  
 The poet and the painter are only truly great by the mutual influences of their studies, and the jealousy of glory has only produced an idle contest. 
Author: Isaac D'Israeli
Nationality: English
b. 11 May 1766  - d. 19 January 1848
  
 Before seeing Truffaut's Small Change, I was afraid it was going to be one of those simple, natural films about childhood which I generally try to avoid - I'm just not good enough to go to them. But this series of sketches on the general theme of the resilience of children turns out to be that rarity - a poetic comedy that's really funny. 
Author: Pauline Kael
Nationality: American
b. 19 June 1919  - d. 3 September 2001
  
 I regard criticism as an art, and if in this country and in this age it is practiced with honesty, it is no more remunerative than the work of an avant-garde film artist. My dear anonymous letter writers, if you think it is so easy to be a critic, so difficult to be a poet or a painter or film experimenter, may I suggest you try both? You may discover why there are so few critics, so many poets. 
Author: Pauline Kael
Nationality: American
b. 19 June 1919  - d. 3 September 2001
  
 I have nothing to say And I am saying it And that is poetry As I need it. 
Author: John Milton Cage
Nationality: American
b. 5 September 1912  - d. 12 August 1922
  
 The higher Greek poetry did not make up fictitious plots; its business was to express the heroic saga, the myths. 
Author: Gilbert Murray
Nationality: English
b. 3 January 1866  - d. 20 May 1957
  
 No poet or orator has ever existed who believed there was any better than himself. 
Author: Marcus Tullius Cicero
Nationality: Roman
b. 3 January 106  - d. 7 December 43
  
 He that works and does some Poem, not he that merely says one, is worthy of the name of Poet. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility. 
Author: Thomas Carlyle
Nationality: Scottish
b. 4 December 1795  - d. 5 September 1881
  
 Poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is. 
Author: James Branch Cabell
Nationality: American
b. 14 April 1879  - d. 5 May 1958
  
 Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 Poetry is indispensable - if I only knew what for. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 The poet doesn't invent. He listens. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed. 
Author: Jean Cocteau
Nationality: French
b. 5 July 1889  - d. 11 October 1963
  
 The American doctrinaire is the converse of the American demagogue, and, in this way, is scarcely less injurious to the public. The first deals in poetry, the last in cant. He is as much a visionary on one side, as the extreme theoretical democrat is a visionary on the other. 
Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Nationality: American
b. 15 September 1789  - d. 14 September 1851
  
 Stephen Fry: I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry, I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual. 
T.V. Series: Fry and Laurie
Nationality: British   
 This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language, by writers not living, and none besides the best. The Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and valued. 
Author: Francis Turner Palgrave
Nationality: British
b. 28 September 1824  - d. 24 October 1897
  
 Rap is poetry set to music. But to me it's like a jackhammer. 
Author: Bette Midler
Nationality: American
b. 1 December 1945
  
 Oh dear, oh dear, how stupid men are when they get an idea into their heads! I tell you he's a good dragon, and a friend of mine, and tells me the most beautiful stories you ever heard, all about old times and when he was little. And he's been so kind to mother, and mother'd do anything for him. And father likes him too, though father doesn't hold with art and poetry much, and always falls asleep when the dragon starts talking about style. But the fact is, nobody can help liking him when once they know him. He's so engaging and so trustful, and as simple as a child! 
Author: Kenneth Graham
Nationality: Scottish
b. 20 July 1859  - d. 6 July 1932
  
 Glorious, stirring sight! The poetry of motion! The real way to travel! The only way to travel! Here today - in next week tomorrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped - always somebody else's horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my! 
Author: Kenneth Graham
Nationality: Scottish
b. 20 July 1859  - d. 6 July 1932
  
 Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee that stings. 
Author: William Dean Howells
Nationality: American
b. 1 March 1837  - d. 11 May 1920
  
 He had enormous and poetic admiration, though very little understanding, of all mechanical devices. They were his symbols of truth and beauty. Regarding each new intricate mechanism - metal lathe, two-jet carburetor, machine gun, oxyacetylene welder - he learned one good realistic-sounding phrase, and used it over and over, with a delightful feeling of being technical and initiated. 
Author: Sinclair Lewis
Nationality: American
b. 7 February 1885  - d. 10 January 1951
  
 Perhaps I am a crank, Martin. There are many who hate me. There are plots against me - oh, you t'ink I imagine it, but you shall see! I make many mistakes. But one thing I keep always pure: the religion of a scientist. To be a scientist - it is not just a different job, so that a man should choose between being a scientist and being an explorer or a bond-salesman or a physician or a king or a farmer. It is a tangle of ver-y obscure emotions, like mysticism, or wanting to write poetry; it makes its victim all different from the good normal man. The normal man, he does not care much what he does except that he should eat and sleep and make love. But the scientist is intensely religious - he is so religious that he will not accept quarter-truths, because they are an insult to his faith. He wants that everything should be subject to inexorable laws. He is equal opposed to the capitalists who t'ink their silly money-grabbing is a system, and to liberals who t'ink man is not a fighting animal; he takes both the American booster and the European aristocrat, and he ignores all their blithering. Ignores it! All of it! He hates the preachers who talk their fables, but he iss not too kindly to the anthropologists and historians who can only make guesses, yet they have the nerf to call themselves scientists! Oh, yes, he is a man that all nice good-natured people should naturally hate!  
Author: Sinclair Lewis
Nationality: American
b. 7 February 1885  - d. 10 January 1951
  
 There are dozens of young poets and fictioneers - most of them a little insane in the tradition of James Joyce, who, however insane they may be, have refused to be genteel and traditional and dull. 
Author: Sinclair Lewis
Nationality: American
b. 7 February 1885  - d. 10 January 1951
  
 Whatever poet, orator or sage may say of it, old age is still old age. 
Author: Sinclair Lewis
Nationality: American
b. 7 February 1885  - d. 10 January 1951
  
 If you are called to be a street sweeper, sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well. 
Author: Martin Luther King Jr.
Nationality: American
b. 15 January 1929  - d. 4 April 1968
  
 Let us speak of our madness. We are always being called mad. If we are mad - we and our brothers in America who are walking hand in hand with us in the vanguard of progress - at least we are mad in company with most of our great predecessors and all the most intelligent foreigners. Beethoven, Schumann, and Wagner, Shelley, Blake, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth were all mad in turn. We shall be proud to join them in the Asylum to which they are now consigned. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty. But I am too busy thinking about myself. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. it is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 Poetry is the deification of reality. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of "a moment of their other lives - a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. it is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 Poetry is the deification of reality. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of "a moment of their other lives - a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 I am resigned to the fact that people who don't know me loathe me. Perhaps it is because I am a woman writing poetry. It must be annoying to a man who wants to write to see this horrid old lady who can. 
Author: Dame Edith Sitwell
Nationality: British
b. 7 September 1887  - d. 9 December 1964
  
 A poet's Mistress is a hallowed thing. 
Author: Richard Monckton Milnes
Nationality: English
b. 19 July 1809  - d. 11 August 1885
  
 But the lover's power is the poet's power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung. 
Author: Amelia Barr
Nationality: British
b. 29 March 1831  - d. 10 March 1919
  
 Vladimir: You should have been a poet. Estragon: I was (gesture towards his rags.) Isn't that obvious? 
Author: Samuel Beckett
Nationality: Irish
b. 13 March 1906  - d. 22 December 1989
  
 Prose is when all the lines except the last go on to the end. Poetry is when some of them fall short of it. 
Author: Jeremy Bentham
Nationality: English
b. 15 February 1748  - d. 6 June 1832
  
 In an artist's life one thunderclap sometimes follows swiftly on another ... I had just had the successive revelations of Beethoven and Weber. Now at another point on the horizon I saw the giant form of Beethoven rear up. The shock was almost as great as that of Shakespeare had been. Beethoven opened before me a new world of music, as Shakespeare had revealed a new universe of poetry. 
Author: Hector Berlioz
Nationality: French
b. 11 December 1803  - d. 8 March 1869
  
 A modern poet has characterized the personality of art and the impersonality of science as follows: Art is I: Science is We. 
Author: Claude Bernard
Nationality: French
b. 12 July 1813  - d. 10 February 1878
  
 Poets and heroes are of the same race, the latter do what the former conceive. 
Author: Alphonse de Lamartine
Nationality: French
b. 21 October 1790  - d. 28 February 1869
  
 Forget Spanish. There's nothing in that language worth reading except Don Quixote, and a quick listen to the CD of Man of La Mancha will take care of that. There was a poet named Garcia Lorca, but I'd leave him on the intellectual back burner if I were you. As for everyone's speaking it, what twaddle! Who speaks it that you are really desperate to talk to? The help? Your leaf blower? Study French or German, where there are at least a few books worth reading, or, if you're American, try English.  
Author: Dame Edna Everage
Nationality: Australian   
 You are a spirit, then, you Man, and not a Man at all. You are a spirit and you dwell within the guts of mortal beast. 
Author: L. Ron Hubbard
Nationality: American
b. 13 March 1911  - d. 24 February 1986
  
 The duty of a lyrical poet is not to express or explain, it is to intensify life. 
Author: James Stephens
Nationality: Irish
b. 9 February 1882  - d. 26 December 1950
  
 The doctor who makes a friend of his patients, the lawyer who defends death penalty cases in distant countries for no fee, the schoolteacher who opens a child's eyes to a new world of books and poetry - such people do nothing that can be measured in marketplaces. The greatest painters, composers and writers don't offer you choices, they present you with what only they can do, and you must take it or leave it. So when such subjects as the values of the marketplace are discussed, you will probably not have much to contribute. You can repeat a poem in your head and wait until the conversation is over. But if anyone starts talking about "level playing fields," get up and steal quietly from the room. 
Author: John Mortimer
Nationality: British
b. 21 April 1923  - d. 16 January 2009
  
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best! 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me to repose! 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 I shall be but a shrimp of an author. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of gratitude. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today. 
Author: Thomas Gray
Nationality: English
b. 26 December 1716  - d. 30 July 1771
  
 The human race is divided into two sharply differentiated and mutually antagonistic classes - a small minority that plays with ideas and is capable of taking them in, and a vast majority that finds them painful, and is thus arrayed against them. 
Author: Henry Louis Mencken
Nationality: American
b. 12 September 1880  - d. 29 January 1956
  
 A rabbit in his meadow lair Imagines none to see him there. But aided by a looking lens A man with eager diligence Inspects the tiny long-eared gnome From a convenient near-by dome. Yet him surveys, or so we learn A god from far off, mild and stern. 
Author: Christian Morgenstern
Nationality: German
b. 6 May 1871  - d. 31 March 1914
  
 One naked star has waded through The purple shadows of the night, And faltering as falls the dew It drips its misty light. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you Ef you don’t watch out. 
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Nationality: American
b. 7 October 1847  - d. 22 July 1916
  
 Oh, rolling round the ocean, From a far and foreign land, May suit the common notion That a sailor's life is grand. But as for me, I'd sooner be A roaring here at home About the rolling, roaring life Of them that sails the foam. For the homeward-bounder's chorus, Which he roars across the foam, Is all about chucking a sailor's life, And settling down at home. Home, home, home, That's the song of them that roam, The song of the roaring, rolling sea Is all about rolling home. 
Author: Norman Lindsay
Nationality: Australian
b. 22 February 1879  - d. 21 November 1969
  
 Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning, And her name, Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome; Her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 
Author: Emma Lazarus
Nationality: American
b. 22 July 1849  - d. 19 November 1887
  
 A poet once said "The whole universe is in a glass of wine." We will probably never know in what sense he meant that, for poets do not write to be understood. But it is true that if we look at a glass closely enough we see the entire universe. There are the things of physics: the twisting liquid which evaporates depending on the wind and weather, the reflections in the glass, and our imaginations adds the atoms. The glass is a distillation of the Earth's rocks, and in its composition we see the secret of the universe's age, and the evolution of the stars. What strange array of chemicals are there in the wine? How did they come to be? There are the ferments, the enzymes, the substrates, and the products. There in wine is found the great generalization: all life is fermentation. Nobody can discover the chemistry of wine without discovering, as did Louis Pasteur, the cause of much disease. How vivid is the claret, pressing its existence into the consciousness that watches it! If our small minds, for some convenience, divide this glass of wine, this universe, into parts - physics, biology, geology, astronomy, psychology, and so on - remember that Nature does not know it! So let us put it all back together, not forgetting ultimately what it is for. Let it give us one more final pleasure: drink it and forget it all! 
Author: Richard Phillips Feynman
Nationality: American
b. 11 May 1918  - d. 15 February 1988
  
 There are the rushing waves... mountains of molecules, each stupidly minding its own business... trillions apart ...yet forming white surf in unison. Ages on ages... before any eyes could see... year after year... thunderously pounding the shore as now. For whom, for what? ...on a dead planet with no life to entertain. Never at rest... tortured by energy... wasted prodigiously by the sun... poured into space. A mite makes the sea roar. Deep in the sea, all molecules repeat the patterns of another till complex new ones are formed. They make others like themselves... and a new dance starts. Growing in size and complexity... living things, masses of atoms, DNA, protein... dancing a pattern ever more intricate. Out of the cradle onto dry land... here it is standing... atoms with consciousness ...matter with curiosity. Stands at the sea... wonders at wondering... I... a universe of atoms... an atom in the universe. 
Author: Richard Phillips Feynman
Nationality: American
b. 11 May 1918  - d. 15 February 1988
  
 The long sobs of The violins Of autumn Lay waste my heart With monotones Of boredom. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 And so I leave On cruel winds Squalling And gusting me Like a dead leaf Falling. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 White moon gleaming Among trees, From every branch Sound rising into Canopies. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Falling tears in my heart, Falling rain on the town. Why this long ache, A knife in my heart. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 By far the worst pain Is not to understand Why without love or hate My heart's full of pain. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 What have you done, you standing there In floods of tears? Tell me what you have done With your young life? 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 De la musique avant toute chose, Et pour cela préfère l'Impair Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'air Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Let's hear the music first and foremost, And that means no more one-two-one-twos… Something more vague instead, something lighter Dissolving in air, weightless as air. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 When you choose your words, no need to search In strict dictionaries for pinpoint Definitions. Better the subtle And heady Songs of Imprecision. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Colour's forbidden, only Nuance! 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 Grip eloquence by the throat and squeeze It to death. And while you're about it You might corral that runaway, Rhyme, Or you'll get Rhyme Without End, Amen. Who will denounce that criminal, Rhyme? Tone-deaf children or crazed foreigners No doubt fashioned its paste jewellery, Tinplate on top, hollow underneath. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 You must let your poems ride their luck On the back of the sharp morning air Touched with the fragrance of mint and thyme… And everything else is LIT-RIT-CHER. 
Author: Paul Verlaine
Nationality: French
b. December 1844  - d.  December 1896
  
 A funny old bird is a pelican. His beak can hold more than his bellican. Food for a week He can hold in his beak, But I don't know how the hellican. 
Author: Dixon Lanier Merritt
Nationality: American
b. December 1879  - d.  December 1972
  
 Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom... 
Author: Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
Nationality: American
b. 10 November 1879  - d. 05 December 1931
  
 Fools-to-free-the-world, they go, Primeval hearts from Buffalo. Red cataracts of France to-day Awake, three thousand miles away, An echo of Niagara The cataract of Niagara. 
Author: Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
Nationality: American
b. 10 November 1879  - d. 05 December 1931
  
 Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the forest with a golden track. 
Author: Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
Nationality: American
b. 10 November 1879  - d. 05 December 1931
  
 These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough. No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy, To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 Thus for each blunt-faced ignorant one The great grey rigid uniform combined Safety with virtue of the sun. Thus concepts linked like chainmail in the mind. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 One joins the movement in a valueless world, Choosing it, till both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 Distorting hackneyed words in hackneyed songs He turns revolt into a style, prolongs The impulse to a habit of the time. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 My thoughts are crowded with death and it draws so oddly on the sexual that I am confused confused to be attracted by, in effect, my own annihilation. 
Author: Thom Gunn
Nationality: American
b. 29 August 1929  - d. 25 April 2004
  
 The children play At hide and seek About the monument To Speke. And why should the dead Explorer mind Who has nothing to seek And nothing to find? 
Author: Humbert Wolfe
Nationality: English
b. 5 January 1886  - d. 5 January 1940
  
 Space is a wind that does not blow On Betelgeuse and time – oh time – is a bird, Whose wings have never stirred The golden avenues of leaves On Betelgeuse. 
Author: Humbert Wolfe
Nationality: English
b. 5 January 1886  - d. 5 January 1940
  
 In paper, many a poet now survives Or else their lines had perish'd with their lives. Old Chaucer, Gower, and Sir Thomas More, Sir Philip Sidney, who the laurel wore, Spenser, and Shakespeare did in art excell, Sir Edward Dyer, Greene, Nash, Daniel. Sylvester, Beaumont, Sir John Harrington, Forgetfulness their works would over run But that in paper they immortally Do live in spite of death, and cannot die. 
Author: John Taylor
Nationality: English
b. December 1578  - d.  December 1653
  
 By wondrous accident perchance one may Grope out a needle in a load of hay; And though a white crow be exceedingly rare, A blind man may, by fortune, catch a hare. 
Author: John Taylor
Nationality: English
b. December 1578  - d.  December 1653
  
 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye. Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 
Author: Tobias George Smollett
Nationality: Scottish
b. 19 March 1721  - d. 17 September 1771
  
 Thy fatal shafts unerring move, I bow before thine altar, Love! 
Author: Tobias George Smollett
Nationality: Scottish
b. 19 March 1721  - d. 17 September 1771
  
 Poets are born, not paid.  
Author: Addison Mizner
Nationality: American
b. 12 December 1872  - d. 05 February 1933
  
 The worst-tempered people I've ever met were the people who knew they were wrong. 
Author: Addison Mizner
Nationality: American
b. 12 December 1872  - d. 05 February 1933
  
 O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm Of green days telling with a quiet beat. 
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 Only the heel Of splendid steel Shall stand secure on sliding fate, When golden navies weep their freight. 
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 And rather than make the book unwieldy I have eschewed notes - reluctantly when some obscure passage or allusion seemed to ask for a timely word; with more equanimity when the temptation was to criticize or 'appreciate.' For the function of the anthologist includes criticizing in silence.  
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 I could not find the way to God; There were too many flaming suns For signposts, and the fearful road Led over wastes where millions Of tangled comets hissed and burned - I was bewildered and I turned. 
Author: Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Nationality: British
b. 21 November 1863  - d. 12 May 1944
  
 Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you Waken! 'tis morning 'tis May!" Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of a flower will you be? I'll be a poppy all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! You're a sunflower! How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye. 
Author: Edith Nesbit
Nationality: English
b. December 1858  - d.  December 1924
  
 Poets who are not interested in music are, or become, bad poets. 
Author: Ezra Pound
Nationality: American
b. 30 October 1885  - d. 1 November 1972
  
 When Poetry thus keeps its place as the handmaiden of piety, it shall attain not a poor perishable wreath, but a crown that fadeth not away. 
Author: John Wesley
Nationality: American
b. 28 June 1703  - d. 02 March 1791
  
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she cannot love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 If I a fancy take To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Tis now since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent) a year, and more, And still I did my part: 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Oh for some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the nobler chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear, Or those that were used kindly. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Her lips were red, and one was thin; Compared with that was next her chin,— Some bee had stung it newly. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 'T is expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not heaven if we knew what it were. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Her face is like the milky way i' the sky, A meeting of gentle lights without a name. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 The prince of darkness is a gentleman. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 Nick of time. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 "High characters," cries one, and he would see Things that ne'er were, nor are, nor e'er will be. 
Author: John Suckling
Nationality: English
b. 10 February 1609  - d. 1 June 1642
  
 History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon. 
Author: Emperor Napoleon I
Nationality: French
b. 15 August 1769  - d. 5 May 1821
  
 In part to blame is she, Which hath without consent bin only tride: He comes to neere that comes to be denide. 
Author: Thomas Overbury
Nationality: English
b. December 1581  - d. 15 September 1613
  
 O dream on your black wings you come when I am sleeping. Sweet is the god but still I am in agony and far from my strength. for I had hope (none now) to share something of the blessed gods, nor was I so foolish as to scorn pleasant toys. Now may I have all these things. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 A handsome man guards his image a while; a good man will one day take on beauty. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 Of course I am downcast and tremble with pity for my state when old age and wrinkles cover me, when Eros flies about and I pursue the glorious young. Pick up your lyre and sing to us of her who wears violets on her breasts. Sing especially of her who is wandering. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 Some say cavalry and others claim infantry or a fleet of long oars is the supreme sight on the black earth. I say it is the one you love. And easily proved. Didn't Helen, who far surpassed all mortals in beauty, desert the best of men, her king, and sail off to Troy and forget her daughter and her dear parents? Merely Aphrodite's gaze made her readily bend and led her far from her path. These tales remind me now of Anaktoria who isn't here, yet I for one would rather see her warm supple step and the sparkle in her face than watch all the chariots in Lydia and foot soldiers armored in glittering bronze. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 If you are my friend, stand up before me and scatter the grace that's in your eyes. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 Some say cavalry and others claim infantry or a fleet of long oars is the supreme sight on the black earth. I say it is the one you love. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 Sweet is the god but still I am in agony and far from my strength. 
Author: Sappho
Nationality: Greek
b. December 630  - d.  December 570
  
 Here's to the day when it is May And care as light as a feather, When your little shoes and my big boots Go tramping over the heather. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 There paused to shut the door A fellow called the Wind, With mystery before, And reticence behind. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 The glad indomitable sea, The strong white sun. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 The greatest joy in nature is the absence of man. 
Author: Bliss Carman
Nationality: Canadian
b. 15 April 1861  - d. 08 June 1929
  
 Can't disagree with the need for a grasp of history. 
Author: Gwendolyn Ifill
Nationality: American
b. 29 September 1955
  
 Try to remember this: what you project Is what you will perceive; what you perceive With any passion, be it love or terror, May take on whims and powers of its own. Therefore a numb and grudging circumspection Will serve you best = unless you overdo it, Watching your step too narrowly, refusing To specify a world, shrinking your purview To a tight vision of your inching shoes, Which may, as soon as you come to think, be crossing An unseen gorge upon a rotten trestle.  
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 What you hope for Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, like that, So neatly that you never feel a thing, The kind assassin Sleep will draw a bead And blow your brains out. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 In each art the difficulty of the form is a substitution for the difficulty of direct apprehension and expression of the object. The first difficulty may be more or less overcome, but the second is insuperable; thus every poem begins, or ought to, by a disorderly retreat to defensible positions. Or, rather, by a perception of the hopelessness of direct combat, and a resort to the warfare of spells, effigies, and prophecies. The relation between the artist and reality is an oblique one, and indeed there is no good art which is not consciously oblique. If you respect the reality of the world, you know that you can approach that reality only by indirect means. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.  
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 When a poet is being a poet - that is, when he is writing or thinking about writing - he cannot be concerned with anything but the making of a poem. If the poem is to turn out well, the poet cannot have thought of whether it will be saleable, or of what its effect on the world should be; he cannot think of whether it will bring him honor, or advance a cause, or comfort someone in sorrow. All such considerations, whether silly or generous, would be merely intrusive; for, psychologically speaking, the end of writing is the poem itself. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; that constitute his ideal audience and his better self. To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men. And he speaks not in private grunts and mutterings but in the public language of the dictionary, of literary tradition, and of the street. Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the products something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.  
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Writing poetry, then, is an unsocial way of manufacturing a thoroughly social product. Because he must shield his poetry in its creation, the poet, more than other writers, will write without recognition. And because his product is not in great demand, he is likely to look on honors and distinctions with the feigned indifference of the wallflower. Yet of course he is pleased when recognition comes; for what better proof is there that for some people poetry is still a useful and necessary thing - like a shoe. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Founded on rock and facing the night-fouled sea A beacon blinks at its own brilliance, Over and over with cutlass gaze Solving the Gordian waters ... 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 The beacon-blaze unsheathing turns The face of darkness pale And now with one grand chop gives clearance to Our human visions . . . 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 The eyes open to a cry of pulleys, And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple As false dawn. Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Now they are rising together in calm swells Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing... 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessed day, And cries, "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry, Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam And clear dances done in the sight of heaven." 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 The soul descends once more in bitter love To accept the waking body 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the arid Sun. They are slow, proud, And move with a stilted stride To the land of sheer horizon... 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 O connoisseurs of thirst, Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst That shimmer on the brink Of absence; auras, lustres, And all shinings need to be shaped and borne. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Wisely watch for the sight Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn, Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right Oasis, light incarnate. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 My dog lay dead five days without a grave In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine And a jungle of grass and honey-suckle vine. I who had loved him while he kept alive Went only close enough to where he was To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell Twined with another odor heavier still And hear the flies' intolerable buzz. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Well, I was ten and very much afraid. In my kind world the dead were out of range And I could not forgive the sad or strange In beast or man. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 Last night I saw the grass Slowly divide (it was the same scene But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green) And saw the dog emerging. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 I started in to cry and call his name, Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head. ... I dreamt the past was never past redeeming: But whether this was false or honest dreaming I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead. 
Author: Richard Wilbur
Nationality: American
b. 01 March 1921
  
 I think when kids just see well-crafted poetry, it's just obtuse to them. It's hard to relate to. 
Author: Jewel Kilcher
Nationality: American
b. 23 May 1974
  
 If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Beauty, which is what is meant by art, using the word in its widest sense, is, I contend, no mere accident to human life, which people can take or leave as they choose, but a positive necessity of life. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The greatest foe to art is luxury, art cannot live in its atmosphere.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Simplicity of life, even the barest, is not a misery, but the very foundation of refinement: a sanded floor and whitewashed walls, and the green trees, and flowery meads, and living waters outside; or a grimy palace amid the smoke with a regiment of housemaids always working to smear the dirt together so that it may be unnoticed; which, think you, is the most refined, the most fit for a gentleman of those two dwellings? So I say, if you cannot learn to love real art; at least learn to hate sham art and reject it. It is not because the wretched thing is so ugly and silly and useless that I ask you to cast it from you; it is much more because these are but the outward symbols of the poison that lies within them; look through them and see all that has gone to their fashioning, and you will see how vain labour, and sorrow, and disgrace have been their companions from the first - and all this for trifles that no man really needs!  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 So long as the system of competition in the production and exchange of the means of life goes on, the degradation of the arts will go on; and if that system is to last forever, then art is doomed, and will surely die; that is to say, civilization will die. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 What shall I say concerning its mastery of and its waste of mechanical power, its commonwealth so poor, its enemies of the commonwealth so rich, its stupendous organization - for the misery of life! Its contempt of simple pleasures which everyone could enjoy but for its folly? Its eyeless vulgarity which has destroyed art, the one certain solace of labour? All this I felt then as now, but I did not know why it was so. The hope of the past times was gone, the struggles of mankind for many ages had produced nothing but this sordid, aimless, ugly confusion. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 What I mean by Socialism is a condition of society in which there should be neither rich nor poor, neither master nor master's man, neither idle nor overworked, neither brain­slack brain workers, nor heart­sick hand workers, in a word, in which all men would be living in equality of condition, and would manage their affairs unwastefully, and with the full consciousness that harm to one would mean harm to all - the realisation at last of the meaning of the word commonwealth. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I love art, and I love history, but it is living art and living history that I love... It is in the interest of living art and living history that I oppose so-called restoration. What history can there be in a building bedaubed with ornament, which cannot at the best be anything but a hopeless and lifeless imitation of the hope and vigour of the earlier world?  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 With the arrogance of youth, I determined to do no less than to transform the world with Beauty. If I have succeeded in some small way, if only in one small corner of the world, amongst the men and women I love, then I shall count myself blessed, and blessed, and blessed, and the work goes on. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Wert thou more fickle than the restless sea, Still should I love thee, knowing thee for such. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The majesty That from man's soul looks through his eager eyes. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Now such an one for daughter Creon had As maketh wise men fools and young men mad. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 O thrush, your song is passing sweet But never a song that you have sung, Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear Love and I were young. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 From out the throng and stress of lies, From out the painful noise of sighs, One voice of comfort seems to rise: "It is the meaner part that dies." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I too Will go, remembering what I said to you, When any land, the first to which we came Seemed that we sought, and set your hearts aflame, And all seemed won to you: but still I think, Perchance years hence, the fount of life to drink, Unless by some ill chance I first am slain. But boundless risk must pay for boundless gain. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Slayer of the Winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the Summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die. Within a little time must ye go by. Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain; In some wise may come ending to my pain; It may be yet the Gods will have me glad! Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Earth, left silent by the wind of night, Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Late February days; and now, at last, Might you have thought that Winter's woe was past; So fair the sky was and so soft the air. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 A world made to be lost, — A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 To happy folk All heaviest words no more of meaning bear Than far-off bells saddening the Summer air. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let em sing of names rememberèd, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines a-row, While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day. So with this Earthly Paradise it is, If ye will read aright, and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss Midmost the beating of the steely sea, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war, But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are, Had leisure on the world around to gaze, And noted well the past times' changing ways; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway passed. And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the mist o'erthrown and dry, And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by; Because the country people, in their fear Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here, And piteously these fair things had been maimed; There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might; Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed; The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting ship; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 And there he saw a door within the wall, Well-hinged, close shut; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he Stood there and pondered for a little space And thought: "Perchance some marvel I shall see, For surely here some dweller there must be, Because this door seems whole and new and sound, While nought but ruin I can see around." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere, Nor laid a finger on this hidden place Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, Because he deemed by magic it was wrought; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss Whereof the hard and changing world knows nought, Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Upon the floor uncounted medals lay Like things of little value; here and there Stood golden caldrons, that might well outweigh The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, And golden cups were set on tables fair, Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 And then the image, that well-nigh erased Over the castle-gate he did behold, Above a door well wrought in coloured gold Again he saw; a naked girl with wings Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "Alas, alas! another day gone by, Another day and no soul come," she said; "Another year, and still I am not dead!" And with that word once more her head she raised, And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "What man art thou that thus hast wandered here, And found this lonely chamber where I dwell? Beware, beware! for I have many a spell; If greed of power and gold have led thee on, Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won. But if thou com'st here knowing of my tale, In hope to bear away my body fair, Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear; So once again I bid thee to beware, Because no base man things like this may see, And live thereafter long and happily." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 From those thy words, I deem from some distress By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save; O then, delay not! if one ever gave His life to any, mine I give to thee; Come, tell me what the price of love must be? Swift death, to be with thee a day and night And with the earliest dawning to be slain? Or better, a long year of great delight, And many years of misery and pain? Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain? A sorry merchant am I on this day, E'en as thou willest so must I obey. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "God grant indeed thy words are not for nought! Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day To such a dreadful life I have been brought: Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay What man soever takes my grief away; Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me But well enough my saviour now to be. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 A queen I was, what Gods I knew I loved, And nothing evil was there in my thought, And yet by love my wretched heart was moved Until to utter ruin I was brought! Alas! thou sayest our gods were vain and nought, Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine, Then shalt thou think them devilish or divine. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 For Queen Diana did my body change Into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell, And through the island nightly do I range, Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, When in the middle of the moonlit night The sleepy mariner I do affright. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command, Who once was called the Lady of the Land; Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss, Yea, half the world with such a sight as this. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "Wilt thou not save me? once in every year This rightful form of mine that thou dost see By favour of the Goddess have I here From sunrise unto sunset given me, That some brave man may end my misery. And thou — art thou not brave? can thy heart fail, Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale? 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Then listen! when this day is overpast, A fearful monster shall I be again, And thou mayst be my saviour at the last, Unless, once more, thy words are nought and vain. If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear, But take the loathsome head up in thine hands And kiss it, and be master presently Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands From Cathay to the head of Italy; And master also, if it pleaseth thee, Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright, Of what thou callest crown of all delight. Ah! with what joy then shall I see again The sunlight on the green grass and the trees, And hear the clatter of the summer rain, And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. Ah, me! to hold my child upon my knees After the weeping of unkindly tears And all the wrongs of these four hundred years. Go now, go quick! leave this grey heap of stone; And from thy glad heart think upon thy way, How I shall love thee — yea, love thee alone, That bringest me from dark death unto day; For this shall be thy wages and thy pay; Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near, If thou hast heart a little dread to bear. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "Ah! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss, To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt, That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss? Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this, The memory of some hopeful close embrace, Low whispered words within some lonely place?" 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 So on he went, and on the way he thought Of all the glorious things of yesterday, Nought of the price whereat they must be bought, But ever to himself did softly say "No roaming now, my wars are passed away, No long dull days devoid of happiness, When such a love my yearning heart shall bless." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend Adown the cloisters, and began again That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. And as it came on towards him, with its teeth The body of a slain goat did it tear, The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran: "Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane of man." Yet he abode her still, although his blood Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat, And creeping on, came close to where he stood, And raised its head to him and wrinkled throat. Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone, Followed him not, but crying horribly, Caught up within her jaws a block of stone And ground it into powder, then turned she, With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, And reached the treasure set apart of old, To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: though the World be a-waning And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: have no thought for to-morrow If ye lie down this even in rest from your pain, Ye who have paid for your bliss with great sorrow. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Till again shall the change come, and words your lips say not Your hearts make all plain in the best wise they would And the world ye thought waning is glorious and good. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The wind is not helpless for any man's need, Nor falleth the rain but for thistle and weed. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 O surely this morning all sorrow is hidden, All battle is hushed for this even at least; And no one this noontide may hunger, unbidden To the flowers and the singing and the joy of your feast Where silent ye sit midst the world's tale increased. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Lo, the lovers unloved that draw nigh for your blessing! For your tale makes the dreaming whereby yet they live The dreams of the day with their hopes of redressing, The dreams of the night with the kisses they give, The dreams of the dawn wherein death and hope strive. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Ah, what shall we say then, but that earth threatened often Shall live on for ever that such things may be, That the dry seed shall quicken, the hard earth shall soften, And the spring-bearing birds flutter north o'er the sea, That earth's garden may bloom round my love's feet and me? 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: it grew up without heeding In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure, And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding, As the morning and evening passed over its treasure. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 And what do ye say then? - That Spring long departed Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers; - That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers; We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Nay, Spring was o'er-happy and knew not the reason, And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended; But this is the harvest and the garnering season, And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding, Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure, Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure; There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding, But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: draw near and behold me Ye who pass by the way to your rest and your laughter, And are full of the hope of the dawn coming after; For the strong of the world have bought me and sold me And my house is all wasted from threshold to rafter. - Pass by me, and hearken, and think of me not!  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Ye know not how void is your hope and your living: Depart with your helping lest yet ye undo me! Ye know not that at nightfall she draweth near to me, There is soft speech between us and words of forgiving Till in dead of the midnight her kisses thrill through me. - Pass by me and harken, and waken me not! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me? Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter, And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after! Nay this I sell not, — though ye bought me and sold me, - For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter. - Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: through the trouble and tangle From yesterday's dawning to yesterday's night I sought through the vales where the prisoned winds wrangle, Till, wearied and bleeding, at end of the light I met him, and we wrestled, and great was my might. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 And the Shadow of the Night and not Love was departed; I was sore, I was weary, yet Love lived to seek; So I scaled the dark mountains, and wandered sad-hearted Over wearier wastes, where e'en sunlight was bleak, With no rest of the night for my soul waxen weak. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 With no rest of the night; for I waked mid a story Of a land wherein Love is the light and the lord, Where my tale shall be heard, and my wounds gain a glory, And my tears be a treasure to add to the hoard Of pleasure laid up for his people's reward. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: cherish life that abideth, Lest ye die ere ye know him, and curse and misname him; For who knows in what ruin of all hope he hideth, On what wings of the terror of darkness he rideth? And what is the joy of man's life that ye blame him For his bliss grown a sword, and his rest grown a fire? 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Live on, for Love liveth, and earth shall be shaken By the wind of his wings on the triumphing morning, When the dead, and their deeds that die not shall awaken, And the world's tale shall sound in your trumpet of warning, And the sun smite the banner called Scorn of the Scorning, And dead pain ye shall trample, dead fruitless desire, As ye wend to pluck out the new world from the fire.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Dawn talks to Day Over dew-gleaming flowers, Night flies away Till the resting of hours: Fresh are thy feet And with dreams thine eyes glistening, Thy still lips are sweet Though the world is a-listening. O Love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting, Cast thine arms round about me to stay my heart's beating! O fresh day, O fair day, O long day made ours! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Morn shall meet noon While the flower-stems yet move, Though the wind dieth soon And the clouds fade above. Loved lips are thine As I tremble and hearken; Bright thine eyes shine, Though the leaves thy brow darken. O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word avail me, Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath and life fail me! O sweet day, O rich day, made long for our love! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Let us speak, love, together some words of our story, That our lips as they part may remember the glory! O soft day, O calm day, made clear for our sake! 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Eve shall kiss night, And the leaves stir like rain As the wind stealeth light O'er the grass of the plain. Unseen are thine eyes Mid the dreamy night's sleeping, And on my mouth there lies The dear rain of thy weeping. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: while ye deemed him a-sleeping, There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet; His touch it was that would bring you to weeping, When the summer was deepest and music most sweet. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 All wonder of pleasure, all doubt of desire, All blindness, are ended, and no more ye feel If your feet treat his flowers or the flames of his fire, If your breast meet his balms or the edge of his steel. Change is come, and past over, no more strife, no more learning: Now your lips and your forehead are sealed with his seal, Look backward and smile at the thorns and the burning. - Sweet rest, O my soul, and no fear of returning!  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it, And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving; These know the Cup with the roses around it; These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!" 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 O hearken the words of his voice of compassion: "Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken Of the weary unrest and the world's passing fashions! As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken, But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken, As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 "Come - pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending! Come - fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting! Come - change ye shall have, for far are ye wending! Come - no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting, But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting! Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!" 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 To give people pleasure in the things they must perforce use, that is one great office of decoration; to give people pleasure in the things they must perforce make, that is the other use of it. Does not our subject look important enough now? I say that without these arts, our rest would be vacant and uninteresting, our labour mere endurance, mere wearing away of body and mind. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 When we can get beyond that smoky world, there, out in the country we may still see the works of our fathers yet alive amidst the very nature they were wrought into, and of which they are so completely a part: for there indeed if anywhere, in the English country, in the days when people cared about such things, was there a full sympathy between the works of man, and the land they were made for: - the land is a little land; too much shut up within the narrow seas, as it seems, to have much space for swelling into hugeness: there are no great wastes overwhelming in their dreariness, no great solitudes of forests, no terrible untrodden mountain-walls: all is measured, mingled, varied, gliding easily one thing into another: little rivers, little plains, swelling, speedily- changing uplands, all beset with handsome orderly trees; little hills, little mountains, netted over with the walls of sheep- walks: all is little; yet not foolish and blank, but serious rather, and abundant of meaning for such as choose to seek it: it is neither prison nor palace, but a decent home. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I do not want art for a few, any more than education for a few, or freedom for a few. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 It is right and necessary that all men should have work to do which shall be worth doing, and be of itself pleasant to do; and which should be done under such conditions as would make it neither over-wearisome nor over-anxious. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Nothing should be made by man's labour which is not worth making; or which must be made by labour degrading to the makers. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 When I was journeying (in a dream of the night) down the well-remembered reaches of the Thames betwixt Streatley and Wallingford, where the foothills of the White Horse fall back from the broad stream, I came upon a clear-seen mediæval town standing up with roof and tower and spire within its walls, grey and ancient, but untouched from the days of its builders of old. All this I have seen in the dreams of the night clearer than I can force myself to see them in dreams of the day. So that it would have been nothing new to me the other night to fall into an architectural dream if that were all, and yet I have to tell of things strange and new that befell me after I had fallen asleep. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Forsooth, ye have heard it said that ye shall do well in this world that in the world to come ye may live happily for ever; do ye well then, and have your reward both on earth and in heaven; for I say to you that earth and heaven are not two but one; and this one is that which ye know, and are each one of you a part of, to wit, the Holy Church, and in each one of you dwelleth the life of the Church, unless ye slay it. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Forsooth, brothers, fellowship is heaven, and lack of fellowship is hell: fellowship is life, and lack of fellowship is death: and the deeds that ye do upon the earth, it is for fellowship's sake that ye do them, and the life that is in it, that shall live on and on for ever, and each one of you part of it, while many a man's life upon the earth from the earth shall wane. Therefore, I bid you not dwell in hell but in heaven, or while ye must, upon earth, which is a part of heaven, and forsooth no foul part. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Forsooth, he that waketh in hell and feeleth his heart fail him, shall have memory of the merry days of earth, and how that when his heart failed him there, he cried on his fellow, were it his wife or his son or his brother or his gossip or his brother sworn in arms, and how that his fellow heard him and came and they mourned together under the sun, till again they laughed together and were but half sorry between them. This shall he think on in hell, and cry on his fellow to help him, and shall find that therein is no help because there is no fellowship, but every man for himself. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I pondered all these things, and how men fight and lose the battle, and the thing that they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat, and when it comes turns out not to be what they meant, and other men have to fight for what they meant under another name. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 It is for him that is lonely or in prison to dream of fellowship, but for him that is of a fellowship to do and not to dream. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Mastership hath many shifts whereby it striveth to keep itself alive in the world. And now hear a marvel: whereas thou sayest these two times that out of one man ye may get but one man's work, in days to come one man shall do the work of a hundred men - yea, of a thousand or more: and this is the shift of mastership that shall make many masters and many rich men. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 To thee, when thou didst try to conceive of them, the ways of the days to come seemed follies scarce to be thought of; yet shall they come to be familiar things, and an order by which every man liveth, ill as he liveth, so that men shall deem of them, that thus it hath been since the beginning of the world, and that thus it shall be while the world endureth... Yet in time shall this also grow old, and doubt shall creep in, because men shall scarce be able to live by that order, and the complaint of the poor shall be hearkened, no longer as a tale not utterly grievous, but as a threat of ruin, and a fear. Then shall these things, which to thee seem follies, and to the men between thee and me mere wisdom and the bond of stability, seem follies once again; yet, whereas men have so long lived by them, they shall cling to them yet from blindness and from fear; and those that see, and that have thus much conquered fear that they are furthering the real time that cometh and not the dream that faileth, these men shall the blind and the fearful mock and missay, and torment and murder: and great and grievous shall be the strife in those days, and many the failures of the wise, and too oft sore shall be the despair of the valiant; and back-sliding, and doubt, and contest between friends and fellows lacking time in the hubbub to understand each other, shall grieve many hearts and hinder the Host of the Fellowship: yet shall all bring about the end, till thy deeming of folly and ours shall be one, and thy hope and our hope; and then — the Day will have come. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 The word Revolution, which we Socialists are so often forced to use, has a terrible sound in most people's ears, even when we have explained to them that it does not necessarily mean a change accompanied by riot and all kinds of violence, and cannot mean a change made mechanically and in the teeth of opinion by a group of men who have somehow managed to seize on the executive power for the moment. Even when we explain that we use the word revolution in its etymological sense, and mean by it a change in the basis of society, people are scared at the idea of such a vast change, and beg that you will speak of reform and not revolution. As, however, we Socialists do not at all mean by our word revolution what these worthy people mean by their word reform, I can't help thinking that it would be a mistake to use it, whatever projects we might conceal beneath its harmless envelope. So we will stick to our word, which means a change of the basis of society; it may frighten people, but it will at least warn them that there is something to be frightened about, which will be no less dangerous for being ignored; and also it may encourage some people, and will mean to them at least not a fear, but a hope.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Fear and Hope - those are the names of the two great passions which rule the race of man, and with which revolutionists have to deal; to give hope to the many oppressed and fear to the few oppressors, that is our business; if we do the first and give hope to the many, the few must be frightened by their hope; otherwise we do not want to frighten them; it is not revenge we want for poor people, but happiness; indeed, what revenge can be taken for all the thousands of years of the sufferings of the poor?  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Soon there will be nothing left except the lying dreams of history, the miserable wreckage of our museums and picture-galleries, and the carefully guarded interiors of our aesthetic drawing-rooms, unreal and foolish, fitting witnesses of the life of corruption that goes on there, so pinched and meagre and cowardly, with its concealment and ignoring, rather than restraint of, natural longings; which does not forbid the greedy indulgence in them if it can but be decently hidden. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I have said as much as that the aim of art was to destroy the curse of labour by making work the pleasurable satisfaction of our impulse towards energy, and giving to that energy hope of producing something worth its exercise. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 This has sometimes appeared in paraphrased form as: "The aim of art is to destroy the curse of labour by making work the pleasurable satisfaction of our impulse towards energy, and giving to that energy hope of producing something worth the exercise." 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 I think that to all living things there is a pleasure in the exercise of their energies, and that even beasts rejoice in being lithe and swift and strong. But a man at work, making something which he feels will exist because he is working at it and wills it, is exercising the energies of his mind and soul as well as of his body. Memory and imagination help him as he works. Not only his own thoughts, but the thoughts of the men of past ages guide his hands; and, as a part of the human race, he creates. If we work thus we shall be men, and our days will be happy and eventful. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Worthy work carries with it the hope of pleasure in rest, the hope of the pleasure in our using what it makes, and the hope of pleasure in our daily creative skill. All other work but this is worthless; it is slaves' work - mere toiling to live, that we may live to toil. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 Go back again, now you have seen us, and your outward eyes have learned that in spite of all the infallible maxims of your day there is yet a time of rest in store for the world, when mastery has changed into fellowship - but not before. Go back again, then, and while you live you will see all round you people engaged in making others live lives which are not their own, while they themselves care nothing for their own real lives - men who hate life though they fear death. Go back and be the happier for having seen us, for having added a little hope to your struggle. Go on living while you may, striving, with whatsoever pain and labour needs must be, to build up little by little the new day of fellowship, and rest, and happiness.  
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 If others can see it as I have seen it, then it may be called a vision rather than a dream. 
Author: William Morris
Nationality: English
b. 24 March 1834  - d. 03 October 1896
  
 For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 How do poems grow? They grow out of your life. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 I don't expect you'll hear me writing any poems to the greater glory of Ronald and Nancy Reagan. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 I've been to a lot of places and done a lot of things, but writing was always first. It's a kind of pain I can't do without. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 Poets, we know, are terribly sensitive people, and in my observation one of the things they are most sensitive about is money. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life. 
Author: Robert Penn Warren
Nationality: American
b. 24 April 1905  - d. 15 September 1989
  
 Give a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, On sea nor shore shall fail. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 Give a man a girl he can love, As I, O my love, love thee; And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 Yet why evoke the spectres of black night To blot the sunshine of exultant years? 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: All was black, In heaven no single star, on earth no track; A brooding hush without a stir or note; The air so thick it clotted in my throat. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 The world rolls round for ever like a mill; It grinds out death and life and good and ill; It has no purpose, heart or mind or will. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 The mighty river flowing dark and deep, With ebb and flood from the remote sea-tides, Vague-sounding through the City’s sleepless sleep, Is named the River of the Suicides. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish, That one best sleep which never wakes again. 
Author: James Thomson (B. V.)
Nationality: Scottish
b. 23 November 1834  - d. 03 June 1882
  
 April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 O ye by wandering tempest sown ’Neath every alien star, Forget not whence the breath was blown That wafted you afar! For ye are still her ancient seed On younger soil let fall- Children of Britain’s island-breed, To whom the Mother in her need Perchance may one day call. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, And void the places where the minstrels stood, Differs in nought from what hath been before, And is nor ill nor good. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness- 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Best they honor thee Who honor in thee only what is best. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 And though circuitous and obscure The feet of Nemesis how sure! 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Deemest thou labor Only is earnest? Grave is all beauty, Solemn is joy. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, Song passes not away. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 In this world with starry dome, Floored with gemlike plains and seas, Shall I never feel at home, Never wholly be at ease? 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 On from room to room I stray, Yet mine Host can ne’er espy, And I know not to this day, Whether guest or captive I. 
Author: William Watson
Nationality: English
b. 02 August 1858  - d. 13 August 1935
  
 Sudden thy silent beauty on me shone, Fair as the moon had given thee all her spell. Then, as Endymion had found on earth, In unchanged beauty but in fashion changed, Her whom I loved so long; so felt I then, Not that a new love in my heart had birth, But that the old, that far from reach had ranged, Was now on earth, and to be loved of men. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 As strong, as deep, as wide as is the sea, Though by the wind made restless as the wind, By billows fretted and by rocks confined, So strong, so deep, so wide my love for thee. "Sonnet II" in Scribner's Monthly Vol. IX 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 So my great love for thee lies tranquil, deep, Forever; though above it passions fierce, Ambition, hatred, jealousy; like waves That seem from earth’s core to the sky to leap, But ocean’s depths can never really pierce; Hide its great calm, while all the surface raves. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 I walk as one unclothed of flesh, I wash my spirit clean; I see old miracles afresh, And wonders yet unseen. I will not leave Thee till Thou give Some word whereby my soul may live! I listened — but no voice I heard; I looked — no likeness saw; Slowly the joy of flower and bird Did like a tide withdraw; And in the heaven a silent star Smiled on me, infinitely far. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 I buoyed me on the wings of dream, Above the world of sense; I set my thought to sound the scheme, And fathom the Immense; I tuned my spirit as a lute To catch wind-music wandering mute. Yet came there never voice nor sign; But through my being stole Sense of a Universe divine, And knowledge of a soul Perfected in the joy of things, The star, the flower, the bird that sings. Nor I am more, nor less, than these; All are one brotherhood; I and all creatures, plants, and trees, The living limbs of God; And in an hour, as this, divine, I feel the vast pulse throb in mine. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf And the harebell shakes on the windy hill - O breath of the distant surf!— The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs; Two children did we stray and talk Wiseidlechildish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a birdso sweet a song Thronged in whose throat all day. Ohthere were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face. She gave me tokens three: - A looka word of her winsome mouth And a wild raspberry. A berry reda guileless look A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wildwild heart Fly down to her little hand. For standing artless as the air And candid as the skies She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully Then went her sunshine way - The sea's eye had a mist on it And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all he partings gone And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet The sweetness in the sad. Stillstill I seemed to see herstill Look up with soft replies And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing beginsand nothing ends That is not paid with moan For we are born in other's pain And perish in our own. 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 I Fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat -and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet - ‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’ I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followèd, Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled, 25 And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars; Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon. I said to Dawn: Be sudden -to Eve: Be soon; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover - Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue; Or whether, Thunder-driven, They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet: - Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat - ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’ I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children’s eyes Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. ‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s -share With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses, Wantoning With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses, Banqueting With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured daïs, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’ So it was done: I in their delicate fellowship was one - Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies. I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings; All that’s born or dies Rose and drooped with; made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine; With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day’s dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning’s eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat, And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound I speak - Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; Let her, if she would owe me, Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o’ her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, With unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; And past those noisèd Feet A voice comes yet more fleet - ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’ Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years - My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must - Designer infinite! - Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: ‘And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said), ‘And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited - Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms. All which thy child’s mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’ Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’ 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.  
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpecked cherries - Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries - All ripe together In summer weather - Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy; Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye, Come buy, come buy." Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bowed her head to hear, Lizzie veiled her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger-tips. "Lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" "Come buy," call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men." Lizzie covered up her eyes Covered close lest they should look; Laura reared her glossy head, And whispered like the restless brook: "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds' weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes." "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us." She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat's face, One whisked a tail, One tramped at a rat's pace, One crawled like a snail, One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry. Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. Laura stretched her gleaming neck Like a rush -imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turned and trooped the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, "Come buy, come buy." When they reached where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One reared his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heaved the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Longed but had no money: The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr'd, The rat-paced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly"; One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: "Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather." "You have much gold upon your head," They answered altogether: "Buy from us with a golden curl." She clipped a precious golden lock, She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flowed that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She sucked and sucked and sucked the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore, She sucked until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away, But gathered up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turned home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: "Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Plucked from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the moonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so." "Nay hush," said Laura. "Nay hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more," and kissed her. "Have done with sorrow; I'll bring you plums to -morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons, icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink, With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap." Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other's wings, They lay down, in their curtained bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fallen snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipped with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars beamed in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapped to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Locked together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churned butter, whipped up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day's delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came - They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags, No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep." But Laura loitered still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still, The dew not fallen, the wind not chill: Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, "Come buy, come buy," With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit -merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come, I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glow-worm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark; For clouds may gather even Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?" Laura turned cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, "Come buy our fruits, come buy." Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life drooped from the root: She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning, Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent 'til Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain, In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: "Come buy, come buy," She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon waxed bright Her hair grew thin and gray; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay, and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root, Watched for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crowned trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney -nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister's cankerous care, Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins' cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy." Beside the brook, along the glen She heard the tramp of goblin men, The voice and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, But feared to pay too dear, She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter-time, With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time. Till Laura, dwindling, Seemed knocking at Death's door: Then Lizzie weighed no more Better and worse, But put a silver penny in her purse, Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook, And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laughed every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter -skelter, hurry -skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes, - Hugged her and kissed her; Squeezed and caressed her; Stretched up their dishes, Panniers and plates: "Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs." "Good folk," said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie, "Give me much and many"; - Held out her apron, Tossed them her penny. "Nay, take a seat with us, Honor and eat with us," They answered grinning; "Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry; Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavor would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us." "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits At home alone for me: So, without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I tossed you for a fee." They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One called her proud, Cross-grained, uncivil; Their tones waxed loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbowed and jostled her, Clawed with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soiled her stocking, Twitched her hair out by the roots, Stamped upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeezed their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood, Like a rock of blue-veined stone Lashed by tides obstreperously, - Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire, - Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee, - Like a royal virgin town Topped with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguered by a fleet Mad to tear her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, Coaxed and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, Kicked and knocked her, Mauled and mocked her, Lizzie uttered not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in; But laughed in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syruped all her face, And lodged in dimples of her chin, And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot. Some writhed into the ground, Some dived into the brook With ring and ripple. Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanished in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse, - Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she feared some goblin man Dogged her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin skurried after, Nor was she pricked by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried "Laura," up the garden, "Did you miss me ? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me: For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men." Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutched her hair: "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruined in my ruin; Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" She clung about her sister, Kissed and kissed and kissed her: Tears once again Refreshed her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loathed the feast: Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks streamed like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame, She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense failed in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind -uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topped water-spout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life ? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watched by her, Counted her pulse's flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cooled her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Opened of cup -like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laughed in the innocent old way, Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, Her breath was sweet as May, And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months,years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not -returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town;) Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, "For there is no friend like a sister, In calm or stormy weather, To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands." 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over, Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past, Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover, Sleeping at last. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 It don't make a difference how rich ye get t' be' How much yer chairs and tables cost, how great the luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything. Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born an' then... Right there ye've got t' bring em up t' women good, an' men; Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' living in it." 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 When you’re up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When it’s vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but you may conquer, See it through! Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim, But don’t let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the worst is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will not save you, See it through! Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you’re beset, But remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but fall still fighting; Don’t give up, whate’er you do; Eyes front, head high to the finish. See it through!  
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I love creeks and the music they make. And rills, in glades and meadows, before they have a chance to become creeks. I may even love them best of all for their secrecy. I almost forgot to say something about the source! Can anything be more wonderful than a spring? But the big streams have my heart too. And the places streams flow into rivers. The open mouths of rivers where they join the sea. The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places. But these coastal rivers! I love them the way some men love horses or glamorous women. I have a thing for this cold swift water. Just looking at it makes my blood run and my skin tingle. I could sit and watch these rivers for hours. Not one of them like any other. I'm 45 years old today. Would anyone believe it if I said I was once 35? My heart empty and sere at 35! Five more years had to pass before it began to flow again. I'll take all the time I please this afternoon before leaving my place alongside this river. It pleases me, loving rivers. Loving them all the way back to their source. Loving everything that increases me. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 So early it's still almost dark out. I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought. Happiness - When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper. They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder. They are so happy they aren't saying anything, these boys. I think if they could, they would take each other's arm. It's early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together. They come on, slowly. The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water. Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn't enter into this. Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Your Dog Dies - it gets run over by a van. you find it at the side of the road and bury it. you feel bad about it. you feel bad personally, but you feel bad for your daughter because it was her pet, and she loved it so. she used to croon to it and let it sleep in her bed. you write a poem about it. you call it a poem for your daughter, about the dog getting run over by a van and how you looked after it, took it out into the woods and buried it deep, deep, and that poem turns out so good you're almost glad the little dog was run over, or else you'd never have written that good poem. then you sit down to write a poem about writing a poem about the death of that dog, but while you're writing you hear a woman scream your name, your first name, both syllables, and your heart stops. after a minute, you continue writing. she screams again. you wonder how long this can go on. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Fear - Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive. Fear of falling asleep at night. Fear of not falling asleep. Fear of the past rising up. Fear of the present taking flight. Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night. Fear of electrical storms. Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite. Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend. Fear of running out of money. Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this. Fear of psychological profiles. Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else. Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes. Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty. Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine. Fear of confusion. Fear this day will end on an unhappy note. Fear of waking up to find you gone. Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough. Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love. Fear of death. Fear of living too long. Fear of death.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year - October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen I study my father's embarrassed young man's face. Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string of spiny yellow perch, in the other a bottle of Carlsbad Beer. In jeans and denim shirt, he leans against the front fender of a 1934 Ford. He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity, Wear his old hat cocked over his ear. All his life my father wanted to be bold. But the eyes give him away, and the hands that limply offer the string of dead perch and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you, yet how can I say thank you, I who ca 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Drinking While Driving - It's August and I have not Read a book in six months except something called The Retreat from Moscow by Caulaincourt Nevertheless, I am happy Riding in a car with my brother and drinking from a pint of Old Crow. We do not have any place in mind to go, we are just driving. If I closed my eyes for a minute I would be lost, yet I could gladly lie down and sleep forever beside this road My brother nudges me. Any minute now, something will happen. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 This Morning - This morning was something. A little snow lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green, as far as the eye could see. Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer. I passed close to some old, bent-over trees. Crossed a field strewn with rocks where snow had drifted. Kept going until I reached the bluff. Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts began to wander. I had to will myself to see what I was seeing and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what mattered, not the other. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrong - duty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife. All the things I hoped would go away this morning. The stuff I live with every day. What I've trampled on in order to stay alive. But for a minute or two I did forget myself and everything else. I know I did. For when I turned back i didn't know where I was. Until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees. And flew 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 What the Doctor Said - He said it doesn't look good he said it looks bad in fact real bad he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before I quit counting them I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know about any more being there than that he said are you a religious man do you kneel down in forest groves and let yourself ask for help when you come to a waterfall mist blowing against your face and arms do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments I said not yet but I intend to start today he said I'm real sorry he said I wish I had some other kind of news to give you I said Amen and he said something else I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do and not wanting him to have to repeat it and me to have to fully digest it I just looked at him for a minute and he looked back it was then I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me something no one else on earth had ever given me I may have even thanked him habit being so strong 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Best Time Of The Day - Cool summer nights. Windows open. Lamps burning. Fruit in the bowl. And your head on my shoulder. These the happiest moments in the day. Next to the early morning hours, of course. And the time just before lunch. And the afternoon, and early evening hours. But I do love these summer nights. Even more, I think, than those other times. The work finished for the day. And no one who can reach us now. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Stupid - It's what the kids nowadays call weed. And it drifts like clouds from his lips. He hopes no one comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help. Help is what he's most short on tonight. A storm thrashes outside. Heavy sea with gale winds from the west. The table he sits at is, say, two cubits long and one wide. The darkness in the room teems with insight. Could be he'll write an adventure novel. Or else a children's story. A play for two female characters, one of whom is blind. Cutthroat should be coming into the river. One thing he'll do is learn to tie his own flies. Maybe he should give more money to each of his surviving family members. The ones who already expect a little something in the mail first of each month. Every time they write they tell him they're coming up short. He counts heads on his fingers and finds they're all survivng. So what if he'd rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers? He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain hammers on. After a while - who knows how long? - his eyes ask that they be closed. And he closes them. But the rain keeps hammering. Is this a cloudburst? Should he do something? Secure the house in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years. Then hanged himself. He opens his eyes again. Nothing adds up. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 An Afternoon - As he writes, without looking at the sea, he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble. The tide is going out across the shingle. But it isn't that. No, it's because at that moment she chooses to walk into the room without any clothes on. Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead. Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her through the doorway. Maybe she's remembering what happened that morning. For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him. And sweetly smiles.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Bobber - On the Columbia River near Vantage, Washington, we fished for whitefish in the winter months; my dad, Swede- Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown flies baited with maggots. They wanted distance and went clear out there to the edge of the riffle. I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. I liked him better than my dad for a time. He lets me steer his car, teased me about my name "Junior," and said one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember all this, and fish with my own son. But my dad was right. I mean he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Current - These fish have no eyes these silver fish that come to me in dreams, scattering their roe and milt in the pockets of my brain. But there's one that comes - heavy, scarred, silent like the rest, that simply holds against the current, closing its dark mouth against the current, closing and opening as it holds to the current. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Cobweb - A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck of the house. From there I could see and hear the water, and everything that's happened to me all these years. It was hot and still. The tide was out. No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing a cobweb touched my forehead. It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned and went inside. There was no wind. The sea was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade. Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath touches it. A fine thread. Intricate. Before long, before anyone realizes, I'll be gone from here. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Circulation - By the time I came around to feeling pain and woke up, moonlight flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed, propped up like an old anchor under your back. You were in a dream, you said later, where you'd arrived early for the dance. But after a moment's anxiety you were okay because it was really a sidewalk sale, and the shoes you were wearing, or not wearing, were fine for that. "Help me," I said. And tried to hoist my arm. But it just lay there, aching, unable to rise on its own. Even after you said, "What is it? What's wrong?" it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved by any expression of fear or amazement. We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep," I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was. But I couldn't laugh. Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it. This can't be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life. Shook it until that stinging went away. We said a few words to each other. I don't remember what. Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance. I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes. You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed. Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed on our respective sides. Pulled the covers up. "Good night," you said, for the second time that night. And fell asleep. Maybe into that same dream, or else another. I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest. Working my fingers now and then. While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where they'd started from. That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, there's another, far more bizarre, we still have to make. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Scratch - I woke up with a spot of blood over my eye. A scratch halfway across my forehead. But I'm sleeping alone these days. Why on earth would a man raise his hand against himself, even in sleep? It's this and similar questions I'm trying to answer this morning. As I study my face in the window. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Booze takes a lot of time and effort if you're going to do a good job with it. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder. 
Author: Sir William Gerald Golding
Nationality: British
b. 19 September 1911  - d. 19 June 1993
  
 Poem Title: Words - Words' purpose - to tell Of the earth and starry sky, All living things between, Of sunlit, spindrift moments, Where only and once can you Find yourself, your time. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Certainty Becomes - Certainty becomes time's whole cloth; But that is what we never can have, And a moment more in time shows Our time is out of true. Certainty sees only the straight road; Many chapters have been written, Many conclusions proposed, all comfortable, But we cannot know the end of our story. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 The Way of Poetry is a short work dealing with what I see as the connections between Daoism and writing poetry in the C21 in the west. It contains 10 of my own poems. It has been published in the US by the Three Pines Press. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Out-Years The out-years are being planned By greasy noses-a wilderness of paper, Words, mission-statements, and needless Needs, and crying needful needs - And their course is foreknown. Why should anyone not embrace them? They are their own best reason, Their needs choose themselves For the heads who fit around them And their own best reasons. If other years are shaping, then Their reasons will be otherwise; If they burst-like spring-upon Our world, then everything will flower, Old reasons left nowhere. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Last Day - On that last day, suddenly freed From anything we might have To do, even duty, why not wander In the afternoon sunlight, looking At flocks of birds, examining Even the dustiest leaves? Or perhaps write poetry which Has meaning only in some other Time, wondering at the rareness Of this special hour, now the weight Has lifted, and others have assumed Their roles for the time. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Never Tell It All - Never tell it all Like it really was, You’ve no idea Who'll be listening— You’ll have to contend With derision, laughter; You'll have to contend With incomprehension and hate. Worse, you’ll see then What you say taken And twisted in ways You never dreamt of. Never tell it all, There’s pride involved— Do you want to say Where you were? Do you want to say What you thought? What you really took To that secret place? Do you want to tell The why and the wherefore, The needs you had, The great solace granted? Never tell it all Like it really was, You may not understand The half of it yourself. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: This Version - You might not want this version, Might prefer that version, but this Is what you have. It’s immediate, understandable; You can make changes here As best you can. What you don’t have is what You don’t want-ideal, unlikeable, Always out of reach. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: A Few Pages In - A few pages in and already The plot has been laid out - We know it will follow either The expected course, or not, The well-trodden way of paradox. And in doing so what we’ll Get is a description of what We know already, or could Easily guess, plus a few Steps on the psychological side. Why not leap now to the end - A poem, not a tedious story - Why follow the way of all prose Though the vale of the known To every expected ending? 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Wind That Blow Through Our Mind - If you think of the winds that blow Through our lives, you might think: Of the wind of childhood, blowing The tall grasses and hayflowers along The hedges, setting the poplar leaves A-flutter-the wind you always Wanted to capture, set down, Whose beauty you guessed at, felt, But could not see, could not frame; Of the summer breeze, stirring In the hot evening, bringing Cool air, carrying the sweet smell Of jasmine-scent of a love Too intense to bear, yet borne; Of the wind of late summer, smelling Of harvest smoke, of ripeness, Provoking restless thoughts - Desire to begin a journey Before winter sets well in; Of a cold autumn wind, tearing Summer to pieces, dragging clouds Like dirty hanks of wool Across the mountain tops, blowing Squalls of stinging rain before it; Of the wind on a winter's night, Gusting in the darkness, only it Moving between the unseen earth And the cold starry sky - Arcturus glaring in the north, Body disembodied, chilled to the bone; Of a great gale from out of the west, Pushing huge waves against the headland, Carrying salt spray far inland, Tossing and clattering bare branches, Bringing boughs low, making Woodland trunks creak and scream; Of the hot wind from the desert, Swirling dust, stirring the salt-bush, As you walked there to find out Who you are, where you are; If you think of these winds, you Think of the scudding, gusting wind, The living wind, the wind that blows Through our lives, through all lives - Original, living principle, First, always and everywhere. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Prisoners - They have never set foot In the wide world, have not heard Birds sing, or smelt the dawn— Shut in their peculiar prison. They have not strayed beyond Their lives, placed themselves In others’ shoes, or viewed their concerns As they might be seen by others. They attend to prayers and porn— Two sides of the same coin— They have not opened eyes To knowledge, to saving difference. The caution is well-taken: Prisoners, blinking at the light, The lack of restraint, cannot Easily find it in themselves To live, to welcome experience, Or make choices of their own. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Poem Not About Birds - This poem is not about birds - There are birds in it, As there are in many poems, But nothing of bird-life, Bird intelligence, birdliness. Birds, after all, supply their own Song, they live and persist In spite of humans, fly In close-packed stanzas, and Lead altogether poetic lives. To use their world for morals, Illumination, or a poetry - Borrowed plumes perhaps - Would be foolish... bird-brained. If you want to use birds Then practise living birdishly, Let you eye be bright, steel Enter your body, set feathers, Defend territory, sing - Then what need for birds? 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Green - It can happen like this: Each day your world grows More colourless, and all savour Tends to harsh, dusty taint. Anger and bitterness creep in - You see the world with anguished, But keen, eyes. In the end One day you die -the pain And bitterness leave you, and Instead you float, you drift, A husk. And then at dawn After the longest night, you wake And walk down to the spring. There you stoop to drink and The water is not less bitter than Before, only you do not taste The bitterness. As you walk on Your eyes are blurred, not keen, All you notice now are details - The flower, the bark pattern - Hills, ranges are out of reach. And little by little the green steals Up on you and you sense it, Green in the brown land, though You never can see it whole. Your footsteps take you nowhere And your life is harder by far Than it ever was before, only Your heart is empty -you have learned To feel nothing, but your sense Is wholly in your new sight, Your new trust, the hand you Can reach out. Your thought belongs Nowhere, as truly it never did. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Day of the Festival - The day of the Festival, a hot, Summer’s day, mid-afternoon, the tide Streamed away down the beach, Exposing first a fin, then a back, Leaving at last a whale stranded. Its furious thrashing in the race, Its mad efforts to burst through The sandy roil, make deep water, Had left it stranded on a shelf, Marooned high on the beach. The village people were celebrating Their Festival, with boats pulled up high; No fishing that day, of all days, Not even in this famine year, Not on the day of the Festival. Any other day keen eyes looking Seawards would have seen the whale - Villagers streamed down with knives And mattocks to butcher it, Many days of feasting for all. But this day not; the whale remained, The day grew longer, night fell, And with night the tide, carrying The whale back out to sea. At dawn the beach was empty. And in that dawn hungry fishermen Went down to launch their boats, Other villagers walked to the fields With empty stomachs, despite the Festival, The Festival of Plenty, the day before. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 These ideas once had life, Were thoughts that people once Lived, breathed, had hope in. But now they are dead, No-one can truly think them - They must be reconstructed, revived. And the language they’re clothed in - Stiff, archaic, full of words That have nothing familiar about them. It’s the stuff of antiquarianism, Preserved for history’s sake alone - Yet, these are this year’s books. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Honest Errors - These mistakes, so inexplicable, In matter of such simplicity, Have a purpose. They give it all away, confound it, Destroy the illusion of a selvedge, True acquittance. They tell us that lumpish authority Is not what we think, nothing To meddle with. Here, these honest errors say, We should not waste our time, Or expect results. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Contre Jaccottet - He says that poets might as well Be knitting - that poetry means nothing, Since the bare words on a page Are not reality, are not a life. But we don’t live very often, Or very well. Reality is something We touch at only rarely, At a few unlooked-for moments. Poetry’s more available than life - A fallible guide to that difficult Undertaking, written by those Who claimed to have lived. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Nel Mezzo - And so I approach the quiet centre, Rest from the busyness of life - Its patterns, activity and facts, which, Then and now, seem to me not A life, rather a kind of agitation Where I forget this, and forget that, And will in time remember a host Of lapidary truths that never were. Quietness says that everything Pretends a permanence it does not enjoy, That it flaunts this scurrying importance, When what obtains, what is true, Is other than the fleeting appearances, The charade never guessed correctly. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: A Circle - A circle traced in the air By the hand, yet the hand does not Make the circle, nor does the strength Of the arm, or the mind’s guidance. The circle springs from a connection Between the earth and the body; Inward force flows to turn The centre, and so the hand travels And in the air a circle’s traced. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Today - Today was broken: last year’s leaves, Dappled with this year’s new sun, And a wind to cancel the warmth And blow the leaves far away. There was nothing to grasp at - These papers, where is any good, Any willingness to be found? - No hint at all for being. And yet today was one where thought Reached to the end of thought, And did not cease to think. List today on the honour board; There was an emptiness, impatience, But hope for future’s side-glance.  
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Earth Star - It dwelt ages-long in the earth, A part of earth itself, a questing, Spreading net of filaments. One rainy spring it burst out Scattering its meaning through the world: Wherever there is soil without network, Without potential, there let it be - Earth is waiting for this, it will decide On its flourishing, or its failure. For now the fruiting body lies, A powdery husk, an open hand, Amongst the grey grass, thistle-stalks Bleached under the high, empty air. It is detached, broken to pieces By the world’s feet and weather. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Look at the Day - If the breeze never touches you Then you’ll wait a long time, Perhaps most of your long life. If you’re too busy or angry It’s no use - the living day, However it is, is not for you. But one time, you’ll look at the day, No half-stuff, but the very day Itself, and then you’ll look again. You’ll walk in the glory of the morning, Leaves all a-shiver in the wind, The morning not given for you. And find, that with the cold wind, That sun, you do belong - Sudden strength in knowledge.  
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Returning Here - Returning here after twenty years, I look about to see what has changed. I should have looked to see what has not - The place, myself, together. What can I say? I’m moved, Glad. Nothing has stayed in place. Another twenty years, and another And I, and this place, will not be. What should I say? Here I was happy... And sad, and am so again. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Sad Heart - If the poem will not crystallise for you - A night when neither the Northern Nor the Southern Crowns could be seen - It may be that the dashes in the document Ascribed to you are too much In themselves... eager sad-heart. Butterflies wander in the mist, Yet flies are clattering on the ground. The path is clear, and every day Certainty weakens its grip. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 I am beginning to lose patience With my personal relations. They are not deep And they are not cheap. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To ask the hard question is simple, The simple act of the confused will. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse's flowers will not last; Nurses to their graves are gone, And the prams go rolling on. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Cold, impossible, ahead Lifts the mountain's lovely head Whose white waterfall could bless Travellers in their last distress.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Acts of injustice done Between the setting and the rising sun In history lie like bones, each one.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Lay your sleeping head, my love Lay your sleeping head, my love Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral; But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie: Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss, O show us History the operator, the Organiser, Time the refreshing river." And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life That shapes the individual belly and orders The private nocturnal terror: "Did you not found the city state of the sponge, "Raise the vast military empires of the shark And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton? Intervene. Descend as a dove or A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe; On that tableland scored by rivers, Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond To the medicine ad and the brochure of winter cruises Have become invading battalions; And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb. Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom As the ambulance and the sandbag; Our hours of friendship into a people's army. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love, The photographing of ravens; all the fun under Liberty's masterful shadow; To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician, The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome; To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers, The eager election of chairmen By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle. To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs, The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion; To-morrow the bicycle races Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The stars are dead. The animals will not look. We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed. 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 They never forgot That even the most dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems. But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs. The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers. Now he is scattered over a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountains start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Base words are uttered only by the base And can for such at once be understood; But noble platitudes - ah, there's a case Where the most careful scrutiny is needed To tell a voice that's genuinely good From one that's base but merely has succeeded. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Unendowed with wealth or pity, Little birds with scarlet legs Sitting on their speckled eggs, Eye each flu-infected city. Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, Silently and very fast. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A million eyes, a million boots in line, Without expression, waiting for a sign. Out of the air a voice without a face Proved by statistics that some cause was just In tones as dry and level as the place: No one was cheered and nothing was discussed. A crowd of ordinary decent folk Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke As three pale figures were led forth and bound To three posts driven upright in the ground. The mass and majesty of this world, all That carries weight and always weighs the same Lay in the hands of others; they were small And could not hope for help and no help came: What their foes like to do was done, their shame Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride And died as men before their bodies died. A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy: a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who'd never heard Of any world where promises were kept Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armorer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis of the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles Who would not live long. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Marriage is rarely bliss But, surely it would be worse As particles to pelt At thousands of miles per sec About a universe In which a lover's kiss Would either not be felt Or break the loved one's neck. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Thoughts of his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic. Written between 1965 and 1968. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We were always adroiter with objects than lives, and more facile at courage than kindness: from the moment the first flint was flaked this landing was merely a matter of time. But our selves, like Adam's, still don't fit us exactly, modern only in this - our lack of decorum. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Look, stranger, on this island now. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 What's the good of going to Wales? 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We would rather be ruined than changed We would rather die in our dread Than climb the cross of the moment And let our illusions die.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another; they might also ask themselves how much poetry of any period they can honestly say that they understand. Published in The Listener, 30 June 1955 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In general, when reading a scholarly critic, one profits more from his quotations than from his comments. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 One cannot review a bad book without showing off. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 At first critics classified authors as Ancients, that is to say, Greek and Latin authors, and Moderns, that is to say, every post-Classical Author. Then they classified them by eras, the Augustans, the Victorians, etc., and now they classify them by decades, the writers of the '30's, '40's, etc. Very soon, it seems, they will be labeling authors, like automobiles, by the year. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In the course of many centuries a few laborsaving devices have been introduced into the mental kitchen - alcohol, coffee, tobacco, Benzedrine, etc. - but these are very crude, constantly breaking down, and liable to injure the cook. Literary composition in the twentieth century A.D. is pretty much what it was in the twentieth century B.C.: nearly everything has still to be done by hand. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The condition of mankind is, and always has been, so miserable and depraved that, if anyone were to say to the poet: "For God's sake stop singing and do something useful like putting on the kettle or fetching bandages," what just reason could he give for refusing? But nobody says this. The self-appointed unqualified nurse says: "You are to sing the patient a song which will make him believe that I, and I alone, can cure him. If you can't or won't, I shall confiscate your passport and send you to the mines." And the poor patient in his delirium cries: "Please sing me a song which will give me sweet dreams instead of nightmares. If you succeed, I will give you a penthouse in New York or a ranch in Arizona. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Without Art, we should have no notion of the sacred; Without Science, we should always worship false gods. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When I find myself in the company of scientists, I feel like a shabby curate who has strayed by mistake into a drawing room full of dukes. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish. This is bad for everyone; the majority lose all genuine taste of their own, and the minority become cultural snobs. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornadoes, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage. The poetic imagination is not at all a desirable quality in a statesman. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When I consider others I can easily believe that their bodies express their personalities and that the two are inseparable. But it is impossible for me not to feel that my body is other than I, that I inhabit it like a house, and that my face is a mask which, with or without my consent, conceals my real nature from others. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The image of myself which I try to create in my own mind in order that I may love myself is very different from the image which I try to create in the minds of others in order that they may love me. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Almost all of our relationships begin and most of them continue as forms of mutual exploitation, a mental or physical barter, to be terminated when one or both parties run out of goods. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To have a sense of sin means to feel guilty at there being an ethical choice to make, a guilt which, however "good" I may become, remains unchanged. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The law cannot forgive, for the law has not been wronged, only broken; only persons can be wronged. The law can pardon, but it can only pardon what it has the power to punish. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All wishes, whatever their apparent content, have the same and unvarying meaning: "I refuse to be what I am." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All pity is self-pity. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In societies with fewer opportunities for amusement, it was also easier to tell a mere wish from a real desire. If, in order to hear some music, a man has to wait for six months and then walk twenty miles, it is easy to tell whether the words, "I should like to hear some music," mean what they appear to mean, or merely, "At this moment I should like to forget myself." When all he has to do is press a switch, it is more difficult. He may easily come to believe that wishes can come true. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To some degree every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A vice in common can be the ground of a friendship but not a virtue in common. X and Y may be friends because they are both drunkards or womanizers but, if they are both sober and chaste, they are friends for some other reason. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Unfortunately for the modern dramatist, during the past century and a half the public realm has been less and less of a realm where human deeds are done, and more and more of a realm of mere human behavior. The contemporary dramatist has lost his natural subject. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 No opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Politics cannot be a science, because in politics theory and practice cannot be separated, and the sciences depend upon their separation. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The truly tragic kind of suffering is the kind produced and defiantly insisted upon by the hero himself so that, instead of making him better, it makes him worse and when he dies he is not reconciled to the law but defiant, that is, damned. Lear is not a tragic hero, Othello is. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The idea of a sacrificial victim is not new; but that it should be the victim who chooses to be sacrificed, and the sacrificers who deny that any sacrifice has been made, is very new. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Whatever the field under discussion, those who engage in debate must not only believe in each other's good faith, but also in their capacity to arrive at the truth. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The mystics themselves do not seem to have believed their physical and mental sufferings to be a sign of grace, but it is unfortunate that it is precisely physical manifestations which appeal most to the religiosity of the mob. A woman might spend twenty years nursing lepers without having any notice taken of her, but let her once exhibit the stigmata or live for long periods on nothing but the Host and water, and in no time the crowd will be clamoring for her beatification. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In the late Middle Ages there were, no doubt, many persons in monasteries and convents who had no business there and should have been out in the world earning an honest living, but today it may very well be that there are many persons trying to earn a living in the world and driven by failure into mental homes whose true home would be the cloister. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 He - Kierkegaard, suffers from one great literary defect, which is often found in lonely geniuses: he never knows when to stop. Lonely people are apt to fall in love with the sound of their own voice, as Narcissus fell in love with his reflection, not out of conceit but out of despair of finding another who will listen and respond. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I said earlier that I do not believe an artist's life throws much light upon his works. I do believe, however, that, more often than most people realize, his works may throw light upon his life. An artist with certain imaginative ideas in his head may then involve himself in relationships which are congenial to them. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it. But it is unbecoming in an artist to talk about inspiration; that is the reader's business. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Machines have no political opinions, but they have profound political effects. They demand a strict regimentation of time, and, by abolishing the need for manual skill, have transformed the majority of the population from workers into laborers. There are, that is to say, fewer and fewer jobs which a man can find a pride and satisfaction in doing well, more and more which have no interest in themselves and can be valued only for the money they provide. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism. The virtue of patriotism has been extolled most loudly and publicly by nations that are in the process of conquering others, by the Roman, for example, in the first century B.C., the French in the 1790s, the English in the nineteenth century, and the Germans in the first half of the twentieth. To such people, love of one's country involves denying the right of others, of the Gauls, the Italians, the Indians, the Poles, to love theirs. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Young people, who are still uncertain of their identity, often try on a succession of masks in the hope of finding the one which suits them - the one, in fact, which is not a mask. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Most people are even less original in their dreaming than in their waking life; their dreams are more monotonous than their thoughts and oddly enough, more literary. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In all technologically "advanced" countries, fashion has replaced tradition, so that involuntary membership in a society can no longer provide a feeling of community. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 It is, for example, axiomatic that we should all think of ourselves as being more sensitive than other people because, when we are insensitive in our dealings with others, we cannot be aware of it at the time: conscious insensitivity is a self-contradiction. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In any modern city, a great deal of our energy has to be expended in not seeing, not hearing, not smelling. An inhabitant of New York who possessed the sensory acuteness of an African Bushman would very soon go mad. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 One can only blaspheme if one believes. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The curious delusion that some families are older than others. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Normally, when one passes someone on the street who is in pain, one either tries to help him, or one simply looks the other way. With a photo there's no human decision; you're not there; you can't turn away; you simply gape. It's a form of voyeurism. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 It's frightfully important for a writer to be his age, not to be younger or older than he is. One might ask, "What should I write at the age of sixty-four," but never, "What should I write in 1940." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A poet, qua poet, has only one political duty, namely, in his own writing to set an example of the correct use of his mother tongue, which is always being corrupted. When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I never write when I'm drunk. Why should one need aids? The Muse is a high-spirited girl who doesn't like to be brutally or coarsely wooed. And she doesn't like slavish devotion - then she lies. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Music is the best means we have of digesting time. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I don't think the mystical experience can be verbalized. When the ego disappears, so does power over language. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Minus times minus equals plus. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; 'I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work,' And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the dead, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenseless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The way to read a fairy tale is to throw yourself in. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Do not talk of the Khedas to me, mother. I belong to Ranjha and he belongs to me. And the Khedas dream idle dreams. Let the people say, "Heer is crazy; she has given herself to a cowherd." 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 The nights are long without my beloved. Since Ranjha became a jogi, I have scarcely been my old self; people everywhere call me crazy. My young flesh is all wrinkled, my bones are a creaking skeleton. I was too young to understand love; and now as the nights swell and merge into each other, I play host to that unkind guest - separation. 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 I have to go to Ranjha's hut, will someone go with me? I have begged many to accompany me, but I had to set out alone. The river is deep, and the shaky bridge creaks. I am tortured by my wounds, but Ranjha my beloved is the doctor who can cure them. Only my beloved can bring me comfort. 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 Long may you think, ”This is it”? And questions of WHY WHO OR WHAT Don’t trouble your little heads. Just keep chewing, breeding (for the tax base) and shiting, Thence go quietly out the back door, with minimum fuss. YOU ARE RIGHT The spirit is useless to you, And unless music, art and the enjoyment of the Airs of the Muses serve a prosaic end, Let it be just that, meanness to a pointless bent. Ignore the human millennia struggle, the wasteful need to say Why me. Too stupid are billions not to acknowledge Your plea “this is it my little chick a deas” Be happy in your selves, Don’t ask of others WHY do you Believe. They cannot answer For you that question, if You have no capacity for that Type of reflection.  
Author: Michael G. Olson
Nationality: Australian
b. 7 December 1956
  
 The wind that sighs before the dawn Chases the gloom of night, The curtains of the East are drawn, And suddenly - 't is light. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The love of the Right, tho' cast down, The hate of victorious Ill, All are sparks from the central fire of A boundless beneficent will. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound, Young voices sing; Wreathe every door with snow-white voices round, For lo! 't is Spring! Winter has passed with its sad funeral train, And Love revives again. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Toil is the law of life and its best fruit. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The victories of Right Are born of strife. There were no Day were there no Night, Nor, without dying, Life. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Call no faith false which e'er hath brought Relief to any laden life, Cessation to the pain of thought, Refreshment mid the dust of strife. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Rest springs from strife and dissonant chords beget Divinest harmonies. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The passionate love of Right, The burning hate of Wrong. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 I love you, Not only for what you are, But for what I am When I am with you. I love you, Not only for what You have made of yourself, But for what You are making of me. I love you For the part of me That you bring out; I love you For putting your hand Into my heaped-up heart And passing over All the foolish, weak things That you can’t help Dimly seeing there, And for drawing out Into the light All the beautiful belongings That no one else had looked Quite far enough to find. I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern But a temple; Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song. I love you Because you have done More than any creed Could have done To make me good And more than any fate Could have done To make me happy. You have done it Without a touch, Without a word, Without a sign. You have done it By being yourself. Perhaps that is what Being a friend means, After all. 
Author: Roy Croft
Nationality: Welsh   
 Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And, when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between and bid us part? 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: 'Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves; Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.' 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence? 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 There studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Ships dim-discovered dropping from the clouds. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Sighed and looked unutterable things. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 The negligence of Nature wide and wild, Where, undisguised by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired - 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 For loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorned adorned the most. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thulè, and th' Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.  
Author: Sir Philip Sidney
Nationality: English
b. 30 November 1554  - d. 17 October 1586
  
 Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 But maybe it's up in the hills under the leaves or in a ditch somewhere. Maybe it's never found. But what you find, whatever you find, is always only part of the missing, and writing is the way the poet finds out what it is he found. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 Wisdom is knowing when you can't be wise. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave to-day, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime. For Death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to free And fled away. Now over the grave abrupt and clear Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear The bugle sing: “Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them any more. Danger’s past; Now at last, Go to sleep!” There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this place of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band. St. Michael’s sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael’s blood runs. And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of buglenotes That softly say: “Farewell! Farewell! Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning-star. Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!” 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 The shivering birds beneath the eaves Have sheltered for the night. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet, A chafing savage, down the decent street; And passion rends my vitals as I pass, Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate Against the potent poison of your hate. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; But looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 Deep in the secret chambers of my heart I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch I bear it nobly as I live my part. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsiana's red, blood-red in warm December. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back! 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept. 
Author: Claude McKay
Nationality: Jamaican
b. 15 September 1889  - d. 22 May 1948
  
 In that very street, at that same hour, In the bitter air and drifting sleet, Crouching in a doorway was a mother, With her children shuddering at her feet. She was silent – who would hear her pleading? Men and beasts were housed – but she must stay Houseless in the great and pitiless city, Till the dawning of the winter day.  
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 What is the flesh and blood compounded of But a few moments in the life of time? This prowling of the cells, litigious love, Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime. 
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Now remember courage, go to the door, Open it and see whether coiled on the bed Or cringing by the wall, a savage beast Maybe with golden hair, with deep eyes Like a bearded spider on a sunlit floor Will snarl - and man can never be alone.  
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Making the slow line dip and sway in its motion proceeding gravely into and out of the limelight is worth the endeavour, if you are given to word-games, which all of us are in one way or another, playing at words of love and the diction of dying, what we say being just as green as the world is. 
Author: Chris Wallace-Crabbe
Nationality: Australian
b. 06 May 1934
  
 As when the locality darkens, earth odours rise up and colour has bled away while the lit clouds yet sail sweetly over us inhabiting a daylight of their own.  
Author: Chris Wallace-Crabbe
Nationality: Australian
b. 06 May 1934
  
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light, ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Go, forget me! why should sorrow, O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, and to-morrow, brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile, though I shall not be near thee; Sing, though I shall never hear thee. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 When you're away, I'm restless, lonely, Wretched, bored, dejected; only here's the rub, my darling dear, I feel the same when you're near. 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 My soul is dark with stormy riot: Directly traced over to diet. 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 What a lucky thing the wheel was invented before the automobile; otherwise, can you imagine what awful screeching? 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 In a white gully among fungus red Where serpent logs lay hissing at the air, I found a kangaroo. Tall dewy,dead, So like a woman, she lay silent there. Her ivory hands, black-nailed, crossed on her breast Her skin of sun and moon hues, fallen cold her brown eyes lay like rivers come to rest And death had made her black mouth harsh and old Beside her in the ashes I sat deep And mourned for her, but had no native song To flatter death, while down the ploughlands steep Dark young Camelli whistled loud and long, 'Love, liberty and Italy are all.' Broad golden was his breast against the sun I saw his wattle whip rise high and fall Across the slim mare's flanks, and one by one She drew the furrows after her as he Flapped like a gull behind her, climbing high Chanting his oaths and lashing soundingly, While from the mare came once a blowing sigh. The dew upon the kangaroo's white side Had melted. Time was whirling high around, Like the thin woomera, and from heaven wide He, the bull-roarer, made continuous sound Incarnate lay my country by my hand: Her long hot days, bushfires, and speaking rains Her mornings of opal and the copper band Of smoke around the sunlight on the plains. Globed in fire-bodies the meat- ants ran to taste her flesh and linked us as we lay, Forever Australian, listening to a man From careless Italy, swearing at our day. When golden-lipped, the eagle-hawks came down Hissing and whistling to eat of lovely her And the blowflies with their shields of purple brown Plied hatching to and fro across her fur, I burnt her with the logs, and stood all day Among the ashes, pressing home the flame Till woman, logs and dreams were scorched away And native with the night, that land from whence they came. 
Author: Eve Langley
Nationality: Australian
b. 01 September 1908  - d. 1 June 1974
  
 The most startling incident in my life was the time I discovered myself to be a poet, which was in the year 1877. 
Author: William Topaz McGonagall
Nationality: Scottish
b. March 1825  - d. 29 September 1902
  
 Fellow citizens of Bonnie Dundee Are ye aware how the magistrates have treated me? Nay, do not stare or make a fuss When I tell ye they have boycotted me from appearing in Royal Circus, Which in my opinion is a great shame, And a dishonour to the city's name. 
Author: William Topaz McGonagall
Nationality: Scottish
b. March 1825  - d. 29 September 1902
  
 We hear the wail of the remorseful winds In their strange penance. And this wretched orb Knows not the taste of rest; a maniac world, Homeless and sobbing through the deep she goes.  
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night; The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.  
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 A poem round and perfect as a star. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Some books are drenchèd sands On which a great soul’s wealth lies all in heaps, Like a wrecked argosy. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The saddest thing that befalls a soul Is when it loses faith in God and woman. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet; One little hour! And then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist and cloud and foam, To meet no more. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Each time we love, We turn a nearer and a broader mark To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, And she hides it well. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Everything is sweetened by risk. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place to-day, it is vain to seek it there to-morrow. You can not lay a trap for it. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren't sure of was if we had any. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 This is a world where everybody's gotta do something. Ya know, somebody laid down this rule that everybody's gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a glider pilot, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that. Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Each minute bursts in the burning room, The great globe reels in the solar fire, Spinning the trivial and unique away. (How all things flash! How all things flare!) What am I now that I was then? May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 I am my father's father, You are your children's guilt. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 In history's pity and terror The child is Aeneas again; 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Troy is in the nursery, The rocking horse is on fire. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Child labor! The child must carry His fathers on his back. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 A car coughed, starting. Morning softly Melting the air, lifted the half-covered chair From underseas, kindled the looking-glass, Distinguished the dresser and the white wall. The bird called tentatively, whistled, called, Bubbled and whistled, so! Perplexed, still wet With sleep, affectionate, hungry and cold. So, so, O son of man, the ignorant night, the travail Of early morning, the mystery of the beginning Again and again, while history is unforgiven. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Whence, if ever, shall come the actuality Of a voice speaking the mind's knowing, The sunlight bright on the green windowshade, And the self articulate, affectionate, and flowing, Ease, warmth, light, the utter showing, When in the white bed all things are made. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 But this, this which we say before we’re sorry, This which we live behind our unseen faces, Is neither dream, nor childhood, neither Myth, nor landscape, final, nor finished, For we are incomplete and know no future, And we are howling or dancing out our souls In beating syllables before the curtain: We are Shakespearean, we are strangers. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 That inescapable animal walks with me, Has followed me since the black womb held, Moves where I move, distorting my gesture, A caricature, a swollen shadow, A stupid clown of the spirit's motive, Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness, The secret life of belly and bone. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Loops of red gauze, the music swoopsdown the glass passage in the wall. Black, rolling hats on a gold rack:"The moon is fallen? Not at all. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Lightning's only marble. Frightening? Only the moon's white marble hair. Stammering thunder's wicked hammer! Night's pasodoble in the air. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Tell me about it." "I'm in hell,I've lost my love, and my religion." "So has your friend, but then, you know the Holy Ghost's a carrier pigeon. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 He'll fly to you, he flew to me,flew back again, Faith in his beak. He also brought my love to tea.We laughed until we couldn't speak." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Bring more chartreuse! You've everything, I've nothing, and I hate the storm. Fate bids me go." "It isn't late.Goya's musicians still perform." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Pains of your youth, and Spanish rains don't last, and hearts heal in the South. I am betrayed. So stop this lie! These fountains merely herald drouth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Pains of your youth, and Spanish rainsdon't last, and hearts heal in the South. I am betrayed. So stop this lie!These fountains merely herald drouth." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Dry death will follow quick, and I will burn, my tears will turn to steam. I'll burst in bitter fire . . . you sigh? Thin sighing, like a vulture's scream!" 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Please write your book, and do not tease your pleasant present with your past. But now, enough. They're going to shut."The ruby tango dies at last." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Loud, flying flowers, odours proud, die in the mirrors as they go. Don Quintin's children have gone on. Don Quintin el Amargao. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The conversation of a bell striking across the afternoon this is what we remember of our early youth. A torch in the bedclothes is soon put out by a morning that comes before its time closing the book before the end of the page. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Charon rings his doorbell all day long, it seems. The ceaseless anger of a bell running across a foggy teatime this is what we remember of our early youth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Amo. Amas. Amat. Does he really? How wonderful. A kiss translated from the Greek we received it in the bootroom, and we prayed, prayed until our heads were cold with a pure sweat, a simple dew, and ignorant. Not knowing the tomb when it touched us, not seeingthe small, immediate burial of a child taking this first warning as a gift, which was only the last tap of an old woodpecker. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Across the harsh field the bell comes like a stonekilling him who was telling us our first story. He, the lustful elder, the dead woodpecker, is silent, so distressed to be left alone again by youth, to be so abandoned perched on the fence alone, in a pair of gold spectacles with a few red feathers round a broken beak. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 In an aseptic chapel, singing for Sunday supper our voices fail at the high note, the most holy. In the chapel sits the false eagle, the convertarmoured in Christian brass, sprawling in a lean nest of Easter lilies. Here, the only eagle is brass and the saints have long since expelled the serpent leaving the lilies, virgins in a vase, open in death flowers of white soap, washed well, like the dead starched, like the white cowls of the dead, waxed, smelling of an immortal Sunday. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 We rise, blind with something that resembled sleep, a brief prostration blind with torch, dream, or book, a few minutes of these. A little horizontal straining, a burden born upon the back. Rise, and shudder forward to split the ice, pour a libation crush the sponge, and scrub the teeth, in between a sneeze. A little vertical straining, quotidian harness, assumption of an upright rack. We rise, blind. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Between the first walls of the day my friend, it is so difficult to wait for youth so hard to become young. To be young only in years is to be old and mad to wear a false beard, to be a small green peach bearded with snow its back against the wall, in a February without an end. We, being too young, are old, and wait at the bottom of a winter garden, for the sun and, when the sun comes, we find no strength to growbeing green peaches, small and cold but only the exchange of light for darkness of nothing for nothing only the illumination of a familiar disaster unseen at night, but long learned by heart. To hide tears in other tears for no reason, save that early youth is madness to hide laughter in counterfeit laughter this is what we know of our early youth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 To smell autumn is to be seventeen. C'est un amateuril est toujours l'élève. I fall with each wicked leaf seventeen. Ego is triumphant in this lowest timeego in the evening season the evening that is too sweet, too rich. To-day there is only a banjo in tearsto-day it is yesterday. [7] To-morrow, spring will come, a small unicorn bringing a birthday but I cannot be born again I cannot give birth to myself again. Instead, I, an inferior Werther, have permitted the world to bear me a bastard an old alien baby, and dead. The narrow hips of my soulshall engender me nothing. I am a silly Hamlet. Even now I should be naked, leaning against the lightholding myself, a newborn baby, in my arms. I should be standing in daylight, with the serpent and the eaglesitting in consort upon a burning bush, my head. Instead, my bones are a basket of silly sorrows.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Under the sailing cedar tree, in a heavy August the elders sat on the lawn, eating a little tea. The sun was in the silver, and the blue cuckoo, the bird Ophelia spoke her pure word, down in the field spoke and spoke again, words of virginal madness. Mother dwindled towards the vegetables and grew back to us again, leaning through the afternoon a daisy on a tide, a bottle of milk in a green afternoon. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 But, as dirt gets between the teeth, and sweat creeps between the piano keysworms into everyone, nails into a cross so Mars, the loud newspaper boy, rode across our roses and trampled our teacups into the lawn. No storm scene destroyed our pastoral symphony, no grand tempest, but instead as dirt gets into the teeth, the newspaper got in at the garden gate and we were all filled with hate. It wasn't for want of washing, of waiting and watching ... ah, no we were always awfully careful, even at Oddenino. Black dirt, white dirt, all on a printed page, we didn't believe you because of Cambridge, Cornwall, vows in a punt because we were being young so beautifully. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Mother returned from the vegetables, on the run through the ruins of the minute sat on a garden chair, and thrust her roots down among the daisies in search of an older strength. Father cursed, and Ophelia fell from the bough snapping a Flanders poppy where she fell. Father's age, too old, made itself into a monument beside Mother, an evening monument, and the eyelids were a little weary. We went. We left by the last summer train, never again. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The Thames trembled in its bed, and Big Ben boomed, the Abbey crouched like a beast, growling "All my boys are doomed!" Straw hats, as hot as butterflies, like butterflies rose on the roar that met the long, grey princes at the Brandenburger Tor. "Splendid, splendid" cried Burlington Bertie, all the knuts were so excited". It doesn't matter now, having empty pockets" too excited to think of the empty eye-sockets.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Father and Mother stood at home, in the mortal sunrise that shook on the horizon and refused to move. They stood, dumb gardeners in a forsaken greenhouse England, my green house, England, my green thought in my green shade, yellow sand, emerald isle, silver sea, hearts of oak white walls, rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, never waives the rules, but the thunder's got into the milk, my darling, and the short-horn's got T. B., and what, we soon began to say, is going to become of me? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Explosion. There is no air. Only a blue vacuum, the hollow flame of a blow-lampa blue, droning flame. An open mouth a blue, toothless mouth, kissing the young face, and droning. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 So many faces and so many nails Faces in a huge, winter window, nails in a nice little box. The young man's being crucified. Such a cheerful cross, all painted with wild flowers by a Lady, the colours go so well with the blood flat ferns of blood, thin and hard as wax. Spider shapes of blood, crawling behind each hand, and behind the locked feet. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What did he do to you, Lady? He would not love. What shall we do to him, Lady? Crucify him. Crucify him. Vast winter faces fill the palace places. White, whistling March puts pretty sparks of jumping light on each nail's head. The army and the king sit in a rich ring hermaphrodites, hostesses, and pious ghosts watching him jerk, and jerk. He's not yet dead. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Seated upon genuine antiques, we've a good view. The motor cars come curving up like a lot of cats, while the young man struggles on his tree. Silly struggles. Snuggle close to me. Lady! now mark my words, seriously God made the world that this should be.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Lady, come rest on the red cushion of my heart and watch the small spider microphone hang in his face, spinning a world's web to catch a public of flies. Each little cough shall be heard by millions. With blood in his voice, balanced upon infinity he made his bed, he made his choice, nails are now his trinity.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Between the shadows of the vine bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. But all my sins return. Alone I pace the graveyard of myselves. Oh for an old, night wood!I would lie down upon a bank, and watch the stars bathe in the slowly folding stream a little stream, caught in its own cold curtains the permanent curtains of my final sadness. All those young ghosts that were me, stretched around half in the ground, heads propt in moss, and wreathed with shining strings of dew, my own old tears. I would not look at them, having forgiven having forgotten all the wrongs I've done and I've been done. Only your red flower shakes on the opposite bank like a cup of blood. Where is this stream, the crystal of my sadnessthe luminous, fallen statue of despair? The stream, the purest portrait of my madness and the ruby blossom, above all my dead, burning the deep, dark air? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Bones, bones, bones, bones. Nothing but gristle, and a shower of bones a storm of stones, and little pieces of blood rolling down a face in the morning. Hiding in a restaurant, let me turn to recollections of what must have been my youth. The buttercups were boiling in the park le duc se promène avec son passé. Lama, lama, sabacthani. The grand Lama, my boy, lives in Thibet. A screw of brown paper blown into a corner of the monastery throne. Lamas, my son live high in Thibet, the duke lives in his enormous mansion and is our very kind landlord. The future frightens me, my boy, because I am old, and was badly educated. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 All men are cormorants, all the day all day's a dream, so choose your eyes carefully, pull them out when it's time. Choose some more. There is no thing-in-itself. So, if you will, you may see des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour... ivre d'amour. Then, father, I want a body and a whole soul, a whole heart, and a whole head to crowd itself against my body. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Boy, you can't choose those eyes. It may come. But instead, you'll often find another boy another girl, and they'll be twisted on the black ribs of one stone, on the angry grids of one minute. Oh, my God, my boy, be warned of me that you must see under a little red sun like a hole in a dog boys and girls served on a hot plate of tears. Oh bones bones and boys and girlsearly flesh that began as a vase of light, tied with a sash of grass in a lap of wild leaves, set upon fur. All this stolen, sat upon, and scraped into hollow mud, and wincing wind sour as a wincing, winter wind! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Winter garden, Tiergarten, I went to Berlin when I was young and I saw women made of knives and forks, and boys in clothes of snow, and I confirmed both. That was one virtue. Because, once, I was like that. I hated missing anything, and that's a sort of virtue. "Yes"-"Yes," that was my motto, whereas "Always Merry and Bright" is still the motto of my cronies. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I'm your Daddy, and I done me best (which is more than I'll do, dear Daddy) And there was, my boy, an April terrace, a late April terrace over a loving curve o' the Rhine a curve like that what old Venus must 'ave 'ad, blesser. I mean the reel old Venus.There was the terrace and the table and between the terrace and the table, I. I was Heidelberg, and Henley - poet - and Sargent, too and an Irving hero, with my hothouse moustache . . . all this. I was your tragic papa, bedight, rather tight, all right and Lili was there, who grew in Bingen, a sprig of groundsel ready, each gloaming, for me, the yellow canary out of the Yellow Book. Though I really was a Henley youth, of course, both Henleys and thought Wilde a beast, though . . sorry, too . . of course. Well, she came upon the terrace, a rising milk fountain a rock garden, a waltz, my Lili and there was a grave sunset floating in the hock like a strawberry. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The evening was Schiller, whispering. Mamma Rhine with the dear barges in her stomach, and each cargo one century of very serious thought. Well, we devoured our dinner, boy, and kissed the moon. It became healed, like a sensible girl. Cronies... awfully decent... nothing unhealthy... Well... but, choose your eyes, for God's sake, my dear boy in spite of the fact I lost the fight... fought at Arques, Crillon, and you were . . . where was I? Don't pay any attention. I lost. You win. Choose your eyes. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Father... I want a body, and a whole soul, a whole heart, and a whole head to crowd between my sins, my body, myself. Good gracious, what on earth's the good . . . eh? And now there's no terrace, no trace. All the flights of all the terraces (the flight of the duchesses) have crumbled into the Express Dairy Co. Ltd. I think since I did buy this mist of mimosa I'll have another dish of Bulgarian Lactic Milk. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Never mind, Daddy, never mind. Oh, you can't understand time, boy so you can't understand me, boy. Under this fringe of withered tears my moustache is an old flag hung in an old barrack riddled so long ago with red hot mouths (rags in the Escorial fidget in the draught) I was like the hero in "Smoke" once, on the clouded terrace fruits, and the "old guard," gods and medals and trophies, épergnes ranged upon the sunset's table by Youth's butler, God. The coloured uniforms of Goethe's cavalry, the serious sunset. Now, I am broken on the wheels of a small table and a small table between a waitress and a wheezy sin. My life's a wilderness of ancient lace frozen as wee and brittle as your mother's fingers frozen by time's ice, cracked at a kiss. My life is a quadrille of shadows, with one extraordinary shadow containing the prophecy of a stone skull with a roll of black dust on its upper lip. No drum and no tropics, no Lili, and no trophies, I am at the end. Now... wear wool, and buy a new pair of eyes every day, my dear boy. Father... I want... 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Across each Rhodes, beside each sea the maddened statue of maternity. The two smooth moons that are her eyesare not allowed to show surprise. She is the pelican that broke her breast to feed the treason in her nest. O red, returning tide! She was once a bride. Blown blind, with huge, sad hands blown hollow she leans, she leans by the salt, sombre shore. A silent stone beside a silent harbour she waits, she waits, nor ever knows them more. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The sound of England from abroad the echo of our parents' wedding march reaches us. Like a gramophone in the next house we hear our father singing in the drawing room, the past. Beside a hot and silent sea, we listen to the noises of the past. With mosquitoes for our foreign rain dropping in long ropes out of these blue clouds, a rope of mosquitoes meets the sea, and spreads out like treacle pouring upon the floor. A sigh, and the marble day slides away. The echo of London, London's country, comes between the coffee and the smile (sing, cicada, shine, phosphorous) The slow-travelling echo has arrived. A manly voice. A marriage bell.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is a shadow where a man sometimes sings. A shadow the shape of a tear. O sun, your help! The shape of a phallus. The shape of a heart. Through the hole in my soul I watch him. It has made the only hole in my soul. Brothers, sisters, do not shine so bright. Brothers and sisters, animals, fathers and mothers, too, tell me your wicked secret, for he cannot live. Giant friends, and dancing relations, you have eaten meI have been your house. Tell me your secret. Tell him, the ignorant singer, how one is able to live. Teach him to dance like you, giant friends, dancing fathers, you, my sister, who hold in your hands a dancing bird, you, my brother, who hold your wife in your arms like a bouquet of blood Tell me! Tell me! For he cannot live! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What is this time when the sun stops and stands on our little mountain like a street lamp? A light, white ball that stops at the height of its flight a frozen game over violet, winter water.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 In the middle of our beginning there is a temporary death. I see a strange Mediterranean made of a variety of violets I have never seen before. Sown by the moon, perhaps. All is gone from me this morning save life itself.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 My hottest tearis one with the frozen stream my purest laughter shall reappear in the peacock's scream.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 If this should last, good-bye, my friends. There is only myself left, and that is the equivalent of nothing. When I was with you I was many. The wind has become still, has become a large, new flower, made of air. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is only the world itself left the world that was in the world. There is only myself left myself that was in myself. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Wait, you whom I love, if you will until the sunset picks the last rose, slowly, and goes It will leave, now, only black and white and I shall be the stranger on this rock. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is this transparent time when the world stops and it is then, only, that I am. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Branch that flew on the hill this morning spire of pity, rest in this cold glass. Branch, fold your wild hands, and pray for me I am twenty four. Twenty four, and purity still lies before.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The light of lemons, a child's light. Open the history book in the silent north and it shines like a child. And yet I see each bough's a finger scratching the thin wind's skineach finger has a nail, each knot of fingers holds a small knife I used to know. Ah, the war in the south is ever hateful the islands of light in the sky, travelling fast and for me, whose big head's always cracked with thirst my English house is a sweet glass of water. But must I always remember my soldier childhood the knives in the trees? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Among wagging leaves, green pots and red I wrote you a letter when I was dead.To-day our tears are telegrams. The rain on the wires is made of tears. Look at these drops again. How could I speak or eat alone in the south? It takes four lips to make a mouth. During a year's fear I heard a voice say "Cease to pray, and on a last Friday at sunrise, stand at the white mouth of the sea up to your cold loins in water and light, and look for me. I am the thing, the meaning, and the prize that stands within the balls of your dumb eyes. Come, when I fit the sun's ring on the day's hand, come at sunrise." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Summer and winter came together.Statues of summer stood along the morning and walked across the sea with hot, white feet. Light poured from them upon the ships and flowers till all the ships were flowers, and blinding flowers the fleet. From the extreme birth-pain at the sea's electric lips whence the Guardian Angel came, to the clouds of ice the blessing statues stretched. As we entered the sky, the Muse in blowing fire flew murmuring by, towards the sacrifice.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 As we left summer, our two isles took flight to new, blue stations high above the sea as 'twixt vast, chanting statues we four rose the islands rose on the wind, and smiled at the sight. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 It was to be all, all, all in a single day all summer, morning, and all winter, noon all love to love, all pain to love away from the white hot sun, all love, to the cold white moon. So love, which had broken its golden nests on the gold sea floor and burst into ships and flowers by the soft sea shore met us upon the mountain. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 It seemed the sun spun round the place and rose and set at our hearts' pace yet, springing from each other's mouths love left time instantly, and won the race. From side to side, the swinging seasons flow the green May valley flashes into snowwhile we, firm founded on each other's mouths form the world's centre, to love's centre go. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Those misers' bags, our breasts, were first undone so did our gold each to the other runthen all our blood ran to each other's mouths. Can two be two, when two have thus been one? O branching blood, O twin red tree! You have so kissed, and mixed with me with blood for food, and wine for bed our heart-shaped root on wine was fed with rock for clock, for leaves the snow how can we wither, or the woodman know? What can we do but to new glories grow? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The cross was made, the bread was laid upon the bleeding stone the cross was mine, the right was mine to spurn the cross, alone. The moment nears, the heart appears the mountain sings and turns our two heads change to one, a strange and blesséd thing, that burns. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What are the stars, poor lonely lights that hang their cold, chaste chains across the nights? They wink for tears, who only can aspire to fuse themselves, as we have done, into one star, one fire. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I am so proud of my rebellious phoenix he rises, and his wings are blinding gongs. Over our small, cold London, our dead mother pour the grey flowers of his ash. Above them I hear huge, solar songs. I cry good-bye to my free phoenix with a sandy throat, and my heart is bared. But I am a poet, and I can make wings, I shall make wings and though you have flown alone to roost on the sun to-morrow the sun's nest shall be shared. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The fire rolls in the coal the coal screams with fire. Sick winter listens on the outer wall, shut out. Winter is wounded, her nightgown of tall fogs is striped with cold white blood, she is without fire. But small spring is shut out, remember,also, the wife and the mother, summer and autumn together. The coal it flies and falls red and red, the spitting pleasure the swiftest pleasure. And what does this pleasure think of thought? for it is fire. Of pain? for it is pleasure. Of time? for it is to-day. Of love? for it is fastest fire, and th'expense of spirit and immediate pleasure. Fire. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 You will grow no pansy in the loud coal no pansy grows where the coal falls, fighting. The grate is a body burning, but where's the pansy that lifts a long, black song in the breaking pleasure of fire? The coal flies, the coal dies there is no earth in that bed. You will have to come back to earth. With only a white sheet twisting, how how can you grow black pansies in a winding sheet? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I love the day, the yellow phoenix, but I love the terrible night. I have two loves, and one is the day, the peace, the brother-lover, the phoenixhe is covered with folding veils of silent fire he sits and swells within a scroll of strong, harmless fire that can fill the world, and that feeds me, so that I am the world. This is the day, the gold food, my truth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I have two loves, and one is the terrible night the cannibal carnation, the soft storm beautiful, blind and black, invisible, alive and dead the carnation face, the lullaby, the kindest poison, the prison. Oh loud, loud is the night, the flower made of mouths louder than the day, louder than my heart. The sun falls, and at once there swings up from the ground, in at the window the night, the drooping thunder, the carnation. It is a burst flower, its blood has burst it, the petals are waving fans of soft blood. It is the mounting night. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I will never give up asking, where are the days? Still the hero dwindles upon the marble, chained with bones. Where is the headland, where are the larger clouds? Where is the place where there are men and women? We have been insulted by all islands, all voices and times. Yet I shall ask always, when will the lovers come, where are the days? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Believe in the body in the landscape! The wind on the rock is a flowing flower. A gun fires on the mountain, the great sound flies, like another world, over my hollow past. The flowers flow across the rock. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The figure stands. A cross, a brown star in the scaffolding of the half built house. The heart. The sun bounds out of the mountain while the gun fires again and again. It is the spring. The gun fires. And a new sun whistles straight up into the centre of the skyto hang and throb and flash and shudder. White flowers and animals pour across the rocks. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The figure stands between the fingers of the coming heartthe slim beams of the heart, the veins the scaffolding of the house. The heart. Legs wide, and arms wide. The widest light. The man, the spreading angel. Cross. Star. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The worlds are one. It is the spring. The landscapes are one. The mountain is all the mountains. The stream has swept all the world's water into one. The one rock rises. The wind lies shining on the rock.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Stand, figure! Stand upon the future, while the past and the present drop, nails from your high hands and feet. Stand, figure, and live, and live! While the future swings and blazes upon the only landscape. The new sun roars above. It is all the birds. Stand, figure! All the flowers burst and roll upon the rocks. It is the end. The heart is building. It is the beginning. Stand, figure, brown star, in the heart! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 All a large black summer's death dies in this one moment (this nought) one afternoon. The sky, pearl in the shut shell, leans, sick asleep down the slum to the slum. The rain's chains, without one sound sung thin still chains, hang, hardly seen, locking London unlit. Tearless, I prepare the leap up, newest, longest, most far I crouch, one, struck, windless, fireless, heavy, heavy the wound hoping not, speaking not, I knot the nameless muscle. O Life! bend down, bend my bow, send my arrow high, now, not low, below. I am my arrow. I have thick hearts to kill, that have killed me. Yet, I am. I, still, am. Hurl me hard, high, and I will kill, and live, and still give life, O Life. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I stood beside his sepulchre whose fame, Hurled over Europe once on bolt and blast, Now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast Glow in the sunset flushed with glorious flame. Has Nature marred his mould? Can Art acclaim No hero now, no man with whom men side As with their hearts' high needs personified? There are will say, One such our lips could name; Columbia gave him birth. Him Genius most Gifted to rule. Against the world's great man Lift their low calumny and sneering cries The Pharisaic multitude, the host Of piddling slanderers whose little eyes Know not what greatness is and never can.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 All that's not love is the dearth of my days, The leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit, The temple in times without prayer, without praise, The altar unset and the candle unlit. Let me survive not the lovable sway Of early desire, nor see when it goes The courts of Life's abbey in ivied decay, Whence sometime sweet anthems and incense arose.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Stretched on a sunny bank he lay at rest, Ferns at his elbow, lilies round his knees, With sweet flesh patterned where the cool turf pressed, Flowerlike crept o'er with emerald aphides. Single he couched there, to his circling flocks Piping at times some happy shepherd's tune, Nude, with the warm wind in his golden locks, And arched with the blue Asian afternoon. Past him, gorse-purpled, to the distant coast Rolled the clear foothills. There his white-walled town, There, a blue band, the placid Euxine lay. Beyond, on fields of azure light embossed He watched from noon till dewy eve came down The summer clouds pile up and fade away  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade, Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of horizons untravelled, unscanned. Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invade Broceliande. Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight disband, Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted in solemn parade, Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the valleys of Fairyland - Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the horn of a huntsman strayed, Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage fitfully fanned, Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle, disturbed and affrayed: Broceliande - Broceliande - Broceliande. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 The rooks aclamor when one enters here Startle the empty towers far overhead; Through gaping walls the summer fields appear, Green, tan, or, poppy-mingled, tinged with red. The courts where revel rang deep grass and moss Cover, and tangled vines have overgrown The gate where banners blazoned with a cross Rolled forth to toss round Tyre and Ascalon. Decay consumes it. The old causes fade. And fretting for the contest many a heart Waits their Tyrtaeus to chant on the new. Oh, pass him by who, in this haunted shade Musing enthralled, has only this much art, To love the things the birds and flowers love too.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Over the radiant ridges borne out on the offshore wind, I have sailed as a butterfly sails whose priming wings unfurled Leave the familiar gardens and visited fields behind To follow a cloud in the east rose-flushed on the rim of the world. I have strayed from the trodden highway for walking with upturned eyes On the way of the wind in the treetops, and the drift of the tinted rack. For the will to be losing no wonder of sunny or starlit skies I have chosen the sod for my pillow and a threadbare coat for my back. Evening of ample horizons, opaline, delicate, pure, Shadow of clouds on green valleys, trailed over meadows and trees, Cities of ardent adventure where the harvests of Joy mature, Forests whose murmuring voices are amorous prophecies, World of romance and profusion, still round my journey spread The glamours, the glints, the enthralments, the nurture of one whose feet From hours unblessed by beauty nor lighted by love have fled As the shade of the tomb on his pathway and the scent of the winding-sheet. I never could rest from roving nor put from my heart this need To be seeing how lovably Nature in flower and face hath wrought, In flower and meadow and mountain and heaven where the white clouds breed And the cunning of silken meshes where the heart's desire lies caught. Over the azure expanses, on the offshore breezes borne, I have sailed as a butterfly sails, nor recked where the impulse led, Sufficed with the sunshine and freedom, the warmth and the summer morn, The infinite glory surrounding, the infinite blue ahead. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 The lad I was I longer now Nor am nor shall be evermore. Spring's lovely blossoms from my brow Have shed their petals on the floor. Thou, Love, hast been my lord, thy shrine Above all gods' best served by me. Dear Love, could life again be mine How bettered should that service be!  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 At dusk, when lowlands where dark waters glide Robe in gray mist, and through the greening hills The hoot-owl calls his mate, and whippoorwills Clamor from every copse and orchard-side, I watched the red star rising in the East, And while his fellows of the flaming sign From prisoning daylight more and more released, Lift their pale lamps, and, climbing higher, higher, Out of their locks the waters of the Line Shaking in clouds of phosphorescent fire, Rose in the splendor of their curving flight, Their dolphin leap across the austral night, From windows southward opening on the sea What eyes, I wondered, might be watching, too, Orbed in some blossom-laden balcony. Where, from the garden to the rail above, As though a lover's greeting to his love Should borrow body and form and hue And tower in torrents of floral flame, The crimson bougainvillea grew, What starlit brow uplifted to the same Majestic regress of the summering sky, What ultimate thing - hushed, holy, throned as high Above the currents that tarnish and profane As silver summits are whose pure repose No curious eyes disclose Nor any footfalls stain, But round their beauty on azure evenings Only the oreads go on gauzy wings, Only the oreads troop with dance and song And airy beings in rainbow mists who throng Out of those wonderful worlds that lie afar Betwixt the outmost cloud and the nearest star.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. 
Author: Maya Angelou
Nationality: American
b. 4 April 1928
  




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