We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
What can be explained is not poetry.
The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain. Because the mountain grass Cannot keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land; Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
O heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What's not for their applause, Being for a woman's sake.
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman's gaze.
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more.
All think what other people think; All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
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