Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the chrystal streamlets plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.
No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening.
You're searching... For things that don't exist; I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings - there are no such things. There are only middles.
So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.
The truth is the river flows into the canyon Of Ceasing-to-Question-What-Doesn't-Concern-Us, As sooner or later we have to cease somewhere.
When gloaming treads the heels of day And birds sit cowering on the spray, Along the flowery hedge I stray, To meet mine ain dear somebody.
Women born and raised on this fragile planet have more uniting us than dividing us - and it's the job of feminists to help us realise that.
It happens just because we need to want and to be wanted too, when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and listen to the warm.
Friendship is something that creates equality and mutuality, not a reward for finding equality or a way of intensifying existing mutuality.
To live without you is to be robbed of love and what is life without it? To live without you is death to me, my love but some call it life.
Angels dance only with You, Beloved and only before You do I bow in adoration. You may accept me or not but I will be at your feet forever.
What does it profit you that all the libraries of the world should be yours? Not knowledge but what one does with knowledge is your profit.
The sense of beauty is intuitive, and beauty itself is all that inspires pleasure without, and aloof from, and even contrarily to interest.
The words in prose ought to express the intended meaning, and no more; if they attract attention to themselves, it is, in general, a fault.
Wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is something deep and good in the meaning too.
I write poetry to figure things out. Any time I’m trying to wrap my head around something, poetry is like a puzzle-solving strategy for me.
I think that my work is easy to understand because I am not a thinker, I am not a... How can I put it? I write the way I perceive, I guess.
Talked my head off Worked my tail off Cried my eyes out Walked my feet off Sang my heat out So you see, There's really not much left of me.
Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thankless. Christmas dinner's dark and blue. When you stop and try to see it From the turkey's point of view.
I learned how to stop crying. I learned how to hide inside of myself. I learned how to be somebody else. I learned how to be cold and numb.
No one has been buried at Mill Road Cemetery in Cambridge, England, for many years, and so the place has a shady, overgrown magic about it.
My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath.
A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding.
I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
The possession of unlimited power will make a despot of almost any man. There is a possible Nero in the gentlest human creature that walks.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
If the soul is left in darkness, sins will be committed. The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.
Civil war.... What did the words mean? Was there any such thing as "foreign war"? Was not all warfare between men warfare between brothers?
He who contemplates the depths of Paris is seized with vertigo. Nothing is more fantastic. Nothing is more tragic. Nothing is more sublime.
As I published books, I realized, that's not really what I want. I don't care about the books as much anymore. I just want to write poetry.
And you, whiner, who wastes your time Dawdling over the remorseless earth, What evil, what unspeakable crime Have you made your life worth?
I will love you forever" swears the poet. I find this easy to swear too. "I will love you at 4:15 pm next Tuesday" - Is that still as easy?
Machines are beneficial to the degree that they eliminate the need for labor, harmful to the degree that they eliminate the need for skill.
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.
Great is Youth--equally great is Old Age--great are Day and Night. Great is Wealth--great is Poverty--great is Expression-great is Silence.
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
O God, protect me from my friends, that they have not power over me. Thou hast giv'n me power to protect myself from thy bitterest enemies.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
Men are admitted into heaven not because they have curbed or governed their passions, but because they have cultivate their understandings.
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed To which the Purple Tyrant fled The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head And became Tyrant in his stead.
Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation a descent follows, endless and indestructible.
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
What lasting progress was ever made in social reformation, except when every step was insured by appeals to the understanding and the will?