Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
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.
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.
You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher.
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.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
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.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
All that is gold does not glitter.
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
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: the best words in the best order.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat
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