How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep...
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
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.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... "When You Are Old And Gray
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.
or simply:
