Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
Poetry is a language in which man explores his own amazement.
The poem . . . is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life.
I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.
Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are rather of the nature of universals, whereas those of history are singulars.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
All that is gold does not glitter.
Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
The poem is not a thing we see; it is, rather, a light by which we may see.
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
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