Poetry is a language in which man explores his own amazement.
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
A poem begins with a lump in the throat
Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal but which the reader recognizes as his own.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.
I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.
Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep...
If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.
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.
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 . . .
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]
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.
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