A poem begins with a lump in the throat
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
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.
It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.
To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal but which the reader recognizes as his own.
Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.
Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep...
If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]
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