I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.
We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.
The fog comes on little cat feet.
Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.
I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
What of the Wright boys in Dayton? Just around the corner they had a shop and did a bicycle business-and they wanted to fly for the sake of flying. They were Man the Seeker, Man on a Quest. Money was their last thought, their final absent-minded idea. They threw out a lot of old mistaken measurements and figured new ones that stood up when they took off and held the air and steered a course. They proved that "the faster you go the less power you need."
The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
Alike and ever alike, we are on all continents in the need of love, food, clothing, work, speech, worship, sleep, games, dancing, fun. From tropics to arctics humanity live with these needs so alike, so inexorably alike.
There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.
The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
I make it clear why I write as I do and why other poets write as they do. After hundreds of experiments I decided to go my own way in style and see what would happen.
I took to wearing a black tie known as the Ascot, with long drooping ends. I had seen pictures of painters, sculptors, poets, wearing this style of tie.
Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
Let your heart look on white sea spray and be lonely. Love is a fool star. You and a ring of stars may mention my name and then forget me. Love is a fool star.
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
The more rhymethere isin poetry the more dangerof its tricking the writer into something other than the urge in the beginning.
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