Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.
Golf is played with a number of striking implements more intricate in shape than those used in any form of recreation except dentistry.
Let the winds blow! a fiercer gale Is wild within me! what may quell That sullen tempest? I must sail Whither, O whither, who can tell!
Throughout his work, Philip Levine's most powerful commitment has been to the failed and lost, the marginal, the unloved, the unwanted.
Break up the institution of the family, deny the inviolability of its relations, and in a little while there would not be any humanity.
There is less misery in being cheated than in that kind of wisdom which perceives, or thinks it perceives, that all mankind are cheats.
We may learn by practice such things upon earth as shall be of use to us in heaven. Piety, unostentatious piety, is never out of place.
There is a destiny which makes us brothers; none goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.
What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?
They might not need me; but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.
I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.
My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine, and over the shadow of my life Stole the light of a peace divine.
The art of cookery is the art of poisoning mankind, by rendering the appetite still importunate, when the wants of nature are supplied.
There is an untroubled harmony in everything, a full consonance in nature; only in our illusory freedom do we feel at variance with it.
Give me, instead of beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find.
Love is that orbit of the restless soulWhose circle grazes the confines of space,Bounding within the limits of its raceUtmost extremes.
Neither praise nor dispraise thy selfe, thy actins serve the turne. [Neither praise nor dispraise thyself; thy actions serve the turn.]
I feel that my job, as an artist, is to disturb the peace. And to disturb it intellectually, linguistically, politically and literally.
And if sun comes / How shall we greet him? / Shall we not dread him, / Shall we not fear him / After so lengthy a / Session with shade?
I tell poets that when a line just floats into your head, don't pay attention 'cause it probably has floated into somebody else's head.
Cold Mountain cold Ice freezes rock Mountains are green Snow is white Sun shines bright Every thing melt Every thing warm Warms old man
It's a cliché, but also a deep truth (as cliché's tend to be), that you can't love another person very well if you don't love yourself.
My poems, I think, exist in a state of tension between the love of natural beauty and the fear of natural meaninglessness or absurdity.
In blissful dream, in silent night, There came to me, with magic might, With magic might, my own sweet love, Into my little room above.
Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.
Every author has the whole past to contend with; all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.
Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.
Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.
Life is waiting everywhere, the future is flowering everywhere, but we only see a small part of it and step on much of it with our feet
Once you are able to make your request in such a way that you will be quite certain of its fulfillment, then the fulfillment will come.
The best is he who calls men to the best. And those who heed the call are also blessed. But worthless who call not, heed not, but rest.
It is courage, courage, courage, that raises the blood of life to crimson splendor. Live bravely and present a brave front to adversity
The historian is terribly responsible to what he can discern are the facts of the case, but he's nothing if he doesn't make out a case.
Robert Frost had always said you mustn't think of the last line first, or it's only a fake poem, not a real one. I'm inclined to agree.
You cannot hope to bribe or twist, thank God! The British journalist. But seeing what the man will do unbribed, there's no occasion to!
The flowers or weeds that spring up tomorrow are in the seeds we sow today. The foolish and the dead alone never change their opinions.
But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men.
It is good to be charitable; but to whom? That is the point. As to the ungrateful, there is not one who does not at last die miserable.
O woman, born first to believe us; Yea, also born first to forget; Born first to betray and deceive us, Yet first to repent and regret.
Tis midnight now. The bend and broken moon, Batter'd and black, as from a thousand battles, Hangs silent on the purple walls of Heaven.
You may tell a man thou art a fiend, but not your nose wants blowing; to him alone who can bear a thing of that kind, you may tell all.
Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes... Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.
Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
They who wander widest lift No more of beauties' jealous veils, Than they who from their doorways see The miracle of flowers and trees.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all.
But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.