Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day.
The lovers of God never run out of patience, for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.
Don't put blankets over the drum! Open completely. Let your spirit ear listen to the green dome's passionate murmur.
You left ground and sky weeping, mind and soul full of grief. No one can take your place in existence or in absence.
I want to say words that flame as I say them, but I keep quiet and don't try to make both words fit in one mouthful.
Since Love has made ruins of my heart The sun must come and illumine them. Such generosity has broken me with shame.
If a piece of worthless stone can bruise a cup of gold, its worth is not increased, nor that of the gold diminished.
Why aren't more gems from our great authors scattered over the country? Great books aren't within everybody's reach.
Our quaint metaphysical opinions, in an hour of anguish, are like playthings by the bedside of a child deathly sick.
Facts are not truths; they are not conclusions; they are not even premises, but in the nature and parts of premises.
This world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
I am too many flavors for one f***ing spoon. I want to erase the lines so I can be me. If we do not speak, who will?
Here lies William Trollope, Who made these stones roll up; When death took his soul up, His body filled this hole up
The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking it is necessary to go through dark and deeper dark and not to turn
When your fear touches someone’s pain, it becomes pity, when your love touches someone’s pain, it become compassion.
and I'm thinking as our bodies meet that I'll remember this forever, and i just hope it's for all the right reasons.
Unpopular, lonely and loving, Elinor need not trouble, For if she were not so loving, She would not be so miserable.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.
I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
The poem is the device through which the ordinary world is seen in a new way - engaging, compelling, even beautiful.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.
Shakespeare is forever coming into our affairs -- putting in his oar, so to speak -- with some pat word or sentence.
There are three things which the public will always clamour for, sooner or later; namely: novelty, novelty, novelty.
Grief is the price we pay for being close to one another. If we want to avoid our grief, we simply avoid each other.
Yes, I've got inwardness and tenderness, but I also get angry and vituperative, and you have to honour that as well.
Your mouth on mine our bridge to cross and serve where we would go. Utopia of sensations the flesh could never know.
"Animals are happy," said the queen. "They run no risk of going to hell." "They are there already," replied Josiana.
The aim of art is almost divine: to bring to life again if it is writing history, to create if it is writing poetry.
But alas, if I have not maintained my victory, it is God's fault for not making man and the devil of equal strength.
Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn.
It is those books which a man possesses but does not read which constitute the most suspicious evidence against him.
I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.
It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.
The imagination is the power that enables us to perceive the normal in the abnormal, the opposite of chaos in chaos.
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, if I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
Demonstration, similitude & harmony are objects of reasoning. Invention, identity & melody are objects of intuition.
But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
There is no release In a bodkin or disease, Nor can there be a work so great As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
Laughter not time destroyed my voice And put that crack in it, And when the moon's pot-bellied I get a laughing fit.