Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns awayAll shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.
Visual surprise is natural in the Caribbean; it comes with the landscape, and faced with its beauty, the sigh of History dissolves.
Life is fragile, like the dew hanging delicately on the grass, crystal drops that will be carried away on the first morning breeze.
This is me apologizing. I am a fool, a bird-brain, a liar and a horse-thief. I wouldn't touch a superlative again with an umbrella.
All those writers who write about their own childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me.
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
The aim of flattery is to soothe and encourage us by assuring us of the truth of an opinion we have already formed about ourselves.
Art is magic, not logic. This craze for the logical spirit in irrational shape is part of the present harmful mania for uniformity.
That the stars are adamant everyone understands— but I won’t give up seeking joy on each blue wave or peace below every gray stone.
A kiss, when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the 'I' in loving; Tis a secret told to the mouth instead of to the ear.
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.
If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple.
There's the brilliant audacity of youth that poets strike upon in their earliest work sometimes that they never can hit upon again.
And we who delve in beauty's lore Know all that we have known before Of what inexorable cause Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.
In masks outrageous and austere, The years go by in single file; But none has merited my fear, And none has quite escaped my smile.
My God, how badly one calculates in this world! ... Let us leave off calculating on anything but death -- it is the only certainty.
The flavors of the peach and the apricot are not lost from generation to generation. Neither are they transmitted by book learning.
Redeemed how I love to proclaim it. Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb. Redeemed thru His infinite mercy His child and forever I am.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
We live by action—by acting on desire. Those of us who don't know how to want—whether geniuses or beggars—are related by impotence.
I think I went to Italy initially for the art, architecture, food and history, but I stayed there because of the people in Cortona.
Propaganda is that branch of the art of lying which consists in nearly deceiving your friends without quite deceiving your enemies.
All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.
Before putting yourself in peril, it is necessary to foresee and fear it; but when one is there, nothing remains but to despise it.
He, that noble prize possessing He that boasts a friend that's true, He whom woman's love is blessing, Let him join the chorus too!
That's the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.
True beauty dwells on high: ours is a flame But borrowed thence to light us thither. Beauty and beauteous words should go together.
There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.
May your service of love a beautiful thing; want nothing else, fear nothing else and let love be free to become what love truly is.
Be content with what thou hast received, and smooth thy frowning forehead, for the door of choice is not open either to thee or me.
Tiers of mountains Cold wind feet Not need fan Ice cold through Moon shines bright Mist covers everything Sit all alone One old man
Believing that all women should want to be mothers makes about as much sense as believing that all men should want to be engineers.
And the dancing has begun now, And the Dancings whirl round gaily In the waltz's giddy mazes, And the ground beneath them trembles.
The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.
Good Luck is a giddy maid, Fickle and restless as a fawn; She smooths your hair; and then the jade Kisses you quickly, and is gone.
Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
So you can't dance? Not at all? Not even one step? How can you say that you've taken any trouble to live when you won't even dance?
No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell; I live; I am alive.
I beseech you to treasure up in your hearts these my parting words: Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.
Those who want much, are always much in need; happy the man to whom God gives with a sparing hand what is sufficient for his wants.
With the aid of a minute correction - that of the dispersing lens - in a gold frame perched on her nose, Miranda can see into hell.
The world rolls round forever like a mill; it grinds out death and life and good and ill; it has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
Most poets, like most people, try hard to be like someone they admire or they are possessed with an image of what they ought to be.
I do think the author ought to be able to give a good reason for the way things are in his poem. Not a bad question to ask oneself.
The picture placed the busts between Adds to the thought much strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen, But Folly's at full length.
Poetry's work is not simply the recording of inner or outer perception; it makes by words and music new possibilities of perceiving