He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life.
I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
The spirit of poetry combines the profundity of the philosopher and the child's delight in bright pictures.
Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie.
The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.
The finest poetry was first experience.
It is not enough that poetry is agreeable, it should also be interesting.
Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
Let your poem be kept nine years.
A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power; 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
You never wish on shooting stars. You wish on the ones that have the courage to shine where they are.
Last night I saw your ghost pedalling a bicycle with a basket towards a moon as full as my heavy head and I wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket like ET with my glowing heart glowing right through my chest and my glowing finger pointing in the direction of our home.
I'm never gonna wait that extra twenty minutes to text you back and I'm never gonna play hard to get when I know your life has been hard enough already.
Cause I might be naked and lonely Shaking branches for bones But I'm still time zones away From who I was the day before we met You were the first mile Where my heart broke a sweat And I wish you were here I wish you'd never left But mostly I wish you well I wish you my very very best.
You panic button collector. You clock of beautiful ticks. You run out the door if you need to. You flock to the front row of your own class. You feather everything until you know you can always, always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay. Everything you feel is okay.
My heart is still a leather jacket I am waiting to give to someone sweet.
In your arms I forget what the yarn knows of sweaters. I forget how to hold myself together. So if I unfold now like a love letter tell me you'll write back soon. Tell me you'll still come untethered.
I'm not lookin' for someone who can save me. Life rafts might keep you afloat but they rarely get you anywhere and I've got places I wanna go. So break me in two, peel back my rib cage and cover every page of my heart with love poems you will burn someday.
So guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record 'cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you can't hear it when we speak.
And we were Banksy on an overpass in New Orleans spray-painting porch lights on the hurricane. We were welcome mats for the un-forgiven. We never sold our windpipes to make a living. We were the letters sent to the wrong address, but opened anyway. We opened anyway.
Poetry has been the guardian angel of humanity in all ages.
Poetry is the morning dream of great minds.
Verses devoid of substance, melodious trifles. [Lat., Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae.]
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