Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
And if one of our instruments breaks, it doesn't matter. We have fallen into the place where everything is music.
The wise man tells not what he knows. It is not prudent to sport with one's head by revealing the king's secrets.
In the faculty of speech man excels the brute; but if thou utterest what is improper, the brute is they superior.
Man to the last is but a froward child; So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.
You can be an artist, work hard for your work and also share while trying to create community with other artists.
In the United States, in poetry workshops, it's now quite a thing to make graduate students learn poems by heart.
I have heard about the civilized, the marriages run on talk, elegant and honest, rational. But and I are savages.
I did not deceive him, he did not deceive me, I did not leave him, he did not leave me, I freed him, he freed me.
I thought I’d been condescended to as an Indian - that was nothing compared to the condescension for writing Y.A.
When the heart acknowledges how much pain there is in the mind, it turns like a mother toward a frightened child.
I am so old-fashioned. I've never lived with a man. I am completely about the independence of paying my own rent.
Since I can't be with you right now I will have to be content just dreaming about when we will be together again.
I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.
The artist tries to see what there is to be interested in... He has not created something, he has seen something.
The man who has nothing to boast of but his illustrious ancestry is like the potato - the best part under ground.
Don't fear to pledge. By winds the perjuries of love Are blown, null and void, across the land and farthest seas.
It is only when we decide that 'ordinary' is an insult, that we become the exquisite miracles we were born to be.
Poetry is our heart, our spirit, our soul. Call it whatever; without it, everything else is nothing but hardware.
If a man has his throat cut in Paris, it's a murder. If 50,000 people are murdered in the east, it is a question.
It may be remarked in passing that success is an ugly thing. Men are deceived by its false resemblences to merit.
As a means of contrast with the sublime, the grotesque is, in our view, the richest source that nature can offer.
Sublime upon sublime scarcely presents a contrast, and we need a little rest from everything, even the beautiful.
A strange thing has happened, do you know? I am in darkness. There is a person who, departing, took away the sun.
The world cares very little about what a man or woman knows; it is what a man or woman is able to do that counts.
The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.
So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.
The cavalry, in particular, were not friendly to the aeroplane, which it was believed, would frighten the horses.
The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.
You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.
So I have talked with Betsey and Betsey has talked with me, And we have agreed together that we can't never agree
I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!
He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
But stories that live longest Are sung above the glass, And Parnell loved his country And Parnell loved his lass.
I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!
It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
Ye lover of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief, take my advice and visit the ancient town of Crieff.
If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong;--be worthy of the grace of God.