Poetry, she thought, wasn't written to be analyzed; it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love
Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead. The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and a richness to life that nothing else can bring.
Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground.
And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
How does the ordinary person come to the transcendent? For a start, I would say, study poetry. Learn how to read a poem. You need not have the experience to get the message, or at least some indication of the message. It may come gradually. (92)
But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.
grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.
That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.
Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery.
I rhyme… to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
If you want to annoy a poet, explain his poetry.
Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity.
Poetry lies its way to the truth.
For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
Poetry makes nothing happen. It survives in the valley of its saying.
Poetry is, above all, an approach to the truth of feeling. A fine poem will seize your imagination intellectually - that is, when you reach it, you will reach it intellectually too - but the way is through emotion, through what we call feeling.
Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement... says heaven and earth in one word... speaks of himself and his predicament as though for the first time.
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