Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
To be silent is sometimes an art, yet not so great a one as certain people would have us believe, who are wisest they are most silent.
Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach.
A saint is a person who does almost everything any other decent person does, only somewhat better and with a totally different motive.
Compassion is not a passion; rather a noble disposition of the soul, made ready to receive love, mercy, and other charitable passions.
I didn't think about whether I was writing poems. I was thinking. And the more I was thinking, the more there was I didn't understand.
If in your mind it was possible to take a year's sabbatical from work to reassess your life, what would you do and where would you go?
The Caribbean is an immense ocean that just happens to have a few islands in it. The people have an immense respect for it, awe of it.
Our artists and writers should not be forced like soldiers to die on foreign soil or to return wounded and crawl famously into a hole.
I'd rather have just one person who reads and feels my work deeply than hundreds of thousands who read it but don't really care about.
I felt the need to be more open and expressive of my feelings, not just about the hills and the countryside, but about the daily life.
Said of her husband on the day their divorce became final: Oh, don't worry about Alan. . . . Alan will always land on somebody's feet.
[To woman bragging about having kept her husband for seven years:] Don't worry, if you keep him long enough, he'll come back in style.
My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.
So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.
Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)
What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
I take simple everyday things that happen to me and I figure it happens to a lot of other people and I make simple rhymes out of them.
Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before
Now, as I've gotten older I've been able to write more quickly. Sometimes I get in the space of something and I can do a lot in a day.
Setting is preliminary to brighter rising; decay is a process of advancement; death is the condition of higher and more fruitful life.
In the history of man it has been very generally the case that when evils have grown insufferable they have touched the point of cure.
The angels may have wider spheres of action, may have nobler forms of duty; but right with them and with us is one and the same thing.
Here is the Truth in a little creed, Enough for all the roads we go: In Love is all the law we need, In Christ is all the God we know.
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
The only thing one can give an artist is leisure in which to work. To give an artist leisure is actually to take part in his creation.
I'm upset by the happiness of all these men who don't know they're unhappy. Because of that, though, I love them all. Dear vegetables!
If we have had no past, it is well for us to look hopefully to the future - for the shadows bear the promise of a brighter coming day.
He that gives all, though but little, gives much; because God looks not to the quantity of the gift, but to the quality of the givers.
The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.
Joy, in Nature's wide dominion, Mightiest cause of all is found; And 'tis joy that moves the pinion When the wheel of time goes round.
The publisher is a middleman, he calls the tune to which the whole rest of the trade dances; and he does so because he pays the piper.
Take all that is given whether wealth, love or language, nothing comes by mistake and with good digestion all can be turned to health.
If I have enough for myself and family, I am steward only for myself; if I have more, I am but a steward of that abundance for others.
Get to live; Then live, and use it; else, it is not true That thou hast gotten. Surely use alone Makes money not a contemptible stone.
The essence of art that is at all noble is the DREAM, and this dream dwells only upon what is distant, absent, vanished, unattainable.
I know no better way of waging the battle for Truth than arraying the facts face to face on either side and letting them fight it out.
I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I have been looking at. I know the beauty of our Lord by it.
Music has the power to make me feel good like nothing else does. It gives me some peace for a while. Takes me back to who I really am.
One day/ One day I waited for myself/ I said to myself Guillaume it's time you came/ So I could know just who I am/ I who know others.
You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep and I say 'here is a rope tie it around me Hafiz will be your companion for life'.
On the holy boughs of the Celestial Tree High up in the heavenly fields, Beyond terrestrial desire My soul-bird a warm nest has built.
And the day climbs down from its blue loft-bed on a slanting ladder of sunbeams, pauses a moment between the trees, airy-light, young.
Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions
Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.
I have always been a great dreamer; in dreams I am more active than in my real life, and these shadows sapped me of health and energy.
All interpretation, all psychology, all attempts to make things comprehensible, require the medium of theories, mythologies, and lies.
For the first time in my life I tasted death, and death tasted bitter, for death is birth, is fear and dread of some terrible renewal.