Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.
Within the oyster's shell uncouth The purest pearl may hide, Trust me you'll find a heart of truth Within that rough outside.
The world is deceitful; her end is doubtful, her conclusion is horrible, her judge terrible, and her judgment is intolerable.
This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.
Ah, to that far distant strand Bridge there was not to convey, Not a bark was near at hand, Yet true love soon found the way.
In the expression of the emotions, originality merits the first consideration... The words used, however, should be old ones.
The mercy of the West has been social revolution; the mercy of the East has been individual insight into the basic self/void.
As a breath on glass, - As witch-fires that burn, The gods and monsters pass, Are dust, and return. (“The Face of the Skies”)
If anything, hearing another poet is a sacred experience I enter, but I can honestly say this does not influence my own work.
To strip a man of all loyalties but those to the state, makes him not only a worm but a monster, without a shred of humanity.
Self-help books for women are part of a multibillion-dollar industry, sensitively attuned to our insecurities and our purses.
I enjoy research; in fact research is so engaging that it would be easy to go on for years, and never write the novel at all.
If you like the precision and concision of poetry, a page of prose is unsatisfying in a certain way. And poetry is so direct.
I like art history and art criticism. Leo Steinberg has always been my favorite. He's very original, very accurate and acute.
The damning tho't stuck in my throat and cut me like a knife, That she, whom all my life I'd loved, should be another's wife.
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again.
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.
All I really wanted was to try and live the life that was spontaneously welling up within me. Why was that so very difficult?
But peace, too, is a living thing and like all life it must wax and wane, accommodate, withstand trials, and undergo changes.
He is senseless who would match himself against a stronger man; for he is deprived of victory and adds suffering to disgrace.
The gods being always close to men perceive those who afflict others with unjust devices and do not fear the wrath of heaven.
Day is pushed out by day, and each new moon hastens to its death. [Lat., Truditur dies die, Novaeque pergunt interire lunae.]
The work you are treating is one full of dangerous hazard, and you are treading over fires lurking beneath treacherous ashes.
Pale death approaches with equal step, and knocks indiscriminately at the door of teh cottage, and the portals of the palace.
Those who seek for much are left in want of much. Happy is he to whom God has given, with sparing hand, as much as is enough.
This was my prayer: an adequate portion of land with a garden and a spring of water and a small wood to complete the picture.
The shame is not in having sported, but in not having broken off the sport. [Lat., Nec luisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum.]
Do not pursue with the terrible scourge him who deserves a slight whip. [Lat., Ne scutica dignum horribili sectere flagello.]
Up, then, with speed, and work; Fling ease and self away-- This is no time for thee to sleep-- Up, watch, and work, and pray!
Progress of a marriage: There was a time when you couldn't make me happy. Now the time has come when you can make me unhappy.
In rap, as in most popular lyrics, a very low standard is set for rhyme; but this was not always the case with popular music.
Reading enables us to see with the keenest eyes, to hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.
[B]ut in literature, it should be remembered, a thing always becomes his at last who says it best, and thus makes it his own.
There is no better ballast for keeping the mind steady on its keel, and saving it from all risk of crankiness, than business.
They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.
My ear is not working, my poetry ear. I can't write a line that doesn't sound like pots and pans falling out of the cupboard.
The grave is a crucible where memory is purified; we only remember a dead friend by those qualities which make him regretted.
You've tried to reform what will not learn. Shut doors on traits that you wish were dead; They will open a window and return.
I don't start with an idea or concept in the sense that I flesh out an idea or concept and set it at the center of something.
If Americans are to read something that is difficult, they will only do so supposing they will be admired for having done it.
I don't look on poetry as closed works. I feel they're going on all the time in my head and I occasionally snip off a length.
I have one head that wants to be good, And one that wants to be bad. And always, as soon as I get up, One of my heads is sad.
Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.
If one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord within whose faithful breast is fixed my image, and who loves me best.
My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.
The laws of changeless justice bind oppressor and oppressed; and, close as sin and suffering joined we march to fate abreast.
Sweet is the infant's waking smile, And sweet the old man's rest-- But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.