Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
You may have tangible wealth untold: Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be I had a Mother who read to me.
Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?
If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
Sometimes he sits at your feet looking into your face with an expression so gentle and caressing that the depth of his gaze startles you.
The poverty of a man of benevolence is not to be considered as poverty but only as his temporary inability to exercise his inherent duty.
She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
So I suppose poetry, language, the shaping of it, was and remains for me an effort to make sense out of essentially senseless situations.
Is it not strange, that an infant should be heir of the whole world, and see those mysteries which the books of the learned never unfold?
I need to look back on my poetic ventures, make sense of them as a whole, and move forward... and to experiment without external demands.
Factory windows are always brokenOther windows are let alone.No one throws through the chapel-windowThe bitter, snarling, derisive stone.
To give thanks in solitude is enough. Thanksgiving has wings and goes where it must go. Your prayer knows much more about it than you do.
There is suffering in the light; in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius.
To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire Quasimodo says. "Why was I not made of stone like thee?
Politics cannot be a science, because in politics theory and practice cannot be separated, and the sciences depend upon their separation.
Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning
The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love.
The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it.
God appears, and God is Light, to those poor souls who dwell in Night; but does a Human Form display to those who dwell in realms of Day.
The grave is Heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait; O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
Knowledge of ideal beauty is not to be acquired. It is born with us. Innate ideas are in every man, born with him; theyare truly himself.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.
We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame,--all these belong to virtue, and all prove that virtue has a title to your love.
I pulled a book by Robinson Jeffers off the shelf one day. It was powerfully moving. Tears ran down my face. That's when I became a poet.
Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.
Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
Persons who discover a flatterer, do not always disapprove him, because he imagines them considerable enough to deserve his applications.
Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
I think I feel rather differently about sympathy to what seems the normal view. I like just to feel it is there, but not always expressed.
If a poem is each time new, then it is necessarily an act of discovery, a chance taken, a chance that may lead to fulfillment or disaster.