It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.
Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.
Didn't you tie the mittens on her feet (Wednesday Evening's) extra special nice? Yes--she is an extra special nice pigeon. She cries for pity when she wants pity. And she shuts her eyes when she doesn't want to look at you. And if you look deep in her eyes when her eyes are open you will see lights there exactly like the lights on the pastures and the meadows when the mist is drifting on a Wednesday evening just between the twilight and gloaming.
His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.
God, let me remember all good losers.
I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.
A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
The wind bit hard at Valley Forge one Christmas. Soldiers tied rags on their feet. Red footprints wrote on the snow...
We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes, spelling depths, crypts, cross-lights, and moon wisps.
Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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.
There have been as many varieties of socialists as there are wild birds that fly in the woods and sometimes go up and on through the clouds.
Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.
The people know what the land knows.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.
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