Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The codfish is a staple food For which I'm seldom in the mood. This fish is such an utter loss That people eat it with egg sauce.
Either you pursue or push, O Sisyphus, the stone destined to keep rolling. [Lat., Aut petis aut urgues ruiturum, Sisyphe, saxum.]
If you would conquer Love, he must be fought At his first onslaught; sprinkle but a drop Of water, the new-kindled flame expires.
There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.
It would be impossible to "love" anyone or anything one knew completely. Love is directed towards what lies hidden in its object.
Poetry strengthens that faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.
What name to call thee by, O virgin fair, I know not, for thy looks are not of earth And more than mortal seems thy countenances.
As the love of the heavens makes us heavenly, the love of virtue virtuous, so doth the love of the world make one become worldly.
Do not, do not, do not books for ever hammer at people like perpetual bells? When, between two books, silent sky appears: be glad
We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
For two thousand years Christianity has been telling us: life is death, death is life; it is high time to consult the dictionary.
Great are the symbols of Being, But that which is symboled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, But vaster the Inward Creator.
I see a resurgence of interest in poetry. I am less optimistic about the prospects for the arts when it comes to federal funding.
I think that when a poem can move readers across generations and across its specific class or race then it becomes truly classic.
In working on a poem, I love to revise. Lots of younger poets don't enjoy this, but in the process of revision I discover things.
A pretty woman's worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.
Meditate nothing. Learn to contemplate. Contemplate glory. There will be a light. Contemplate Truth until it burns your eyes out.
It was far in the sameness of the wood; I was running with joy on the Demon's trail, Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
Freud was way off base in considering sex the fundamental motivation. The ruling passion in men is minding each other's business.
Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any. Join the United States and join the family- But not much in between unless a college.
Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
The solitary Bee Whose buzzing was the only sound of life, Flew there on restless wing, Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.
Most of the people are no thicker than Formica, yet they hunger obscurely for some continuity with the place and with each other.
In loving his own productive, generative, generous love, God loves all those ways in which that love can be realised in creation.
Do not sit long with a sad friend. When you go to a garden do you look at the weeds? Spend more time with the roses and jasmines.
Beware! Don't allow yourself to do what you know is wrong, relying on the thought, Later I will repent and ask God's forgiveness.
Yesterday was glory and joy. Today, a blackened burn everywhere. On the record of my life, these two days will be put down as one
Lovers drink wine all day and night and tear the veils of the mind. When drunk with love's wine, body, heart and soul become one.
Is your face a beautiful blossom or a sweet torture? I have no complaints but my heart is tempted to let you hear of its sorrows.
If you follow the ways in which you were trained, which you may have inherited, for no other reason than this, you are illogical.
The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.
Stars burn clear all night till dawn. Do that yourself, and a spring will rise in the dark with water your deepest thirst is for.
You have been a prisoner of a little pond I am the ocean and its turbulent flood Come merge with me leave this world of ignorance
Obedience is not truly performed by the body of him whose heart is dissatisfied. The shell without a kernel is not fit for store.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.
O it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please.
As writers and readers, as sinners and citizens, our realism and our aesthetic sense make us wary of crediting the positive note.
All through childhood, I wrote verses and mysteries. There is, for me, one connection: structure. My poetry is metrical, rhyming.
The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.
I'm reading a manuscript by Rodney Jones, "Village Prodigies",it's one of the best contemporary poetry books I've ever read ever.
Oh Lion in a peculiar guise, Sharp Roman road to Paradise, Come eat me up, I'll pay thy toll With all my flesh, and keep my soul.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
The true nature of all wealth is temporary; those who have wealth must here and now do good deeds that will live for a long time.
A man should have duties outside of himself; without them, he is a mere balloon, inflated with thin egotism and drifting nowhere.
One wit, like a knuckle of ham in soup, gives a zest and flavour to the dish, but more than one serves only to spoil the pottage.
I hate it when, after I let a white person know they've said something racist, I end up having to listen for hours to their life.
It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven infills those who are leaving the light of earth.
The little people must be sacred to the big ones, and it is from the rights of the weak that the duty of the strong is comprised.
If you wish to understand what Revolution is, call it Progress; and if you wish to understand what Progress is, call it Tomorrow.