Poetry Quotes - Page 27

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on TheeAnd I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.

Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Realized dreams often turn into nightmares.

Oh, the summer night / HAS A SMILE OF LIGHT / And she sits on a sapphire throne.

Every time your work is read, you die several deaths for every word, and poetry is like being flayed alive.

It is not enough to be a man.

Blessed is the covenant of love, the covenant of mercy, useless light behind the terror, deathless song in the house of night.

But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near

they told her, “fear the reaper."she laughed to herself and muttered, 'baby, death ain’t nothing’ more than a quick fuck. a little bit of silence after he comes.

some people are so deepyou fall into themand you never stop falling.

And they danced with laughter and tears. They swung each other round and round, the first and last time in years.

You lift your head, you’re on your way, but really just to be walking, to be out of doors. That’s it, that’s all, and you’re there. Outdoors is our element: the exact sensation of living there.

The true poetic feeling is a feeling of boundless gratitude.

I shivered in thosesolitudeswhen I heardthe voiceofthe saltin the desert.

My beloved has arrived, but rather than greeting him, All I can do is bite the corner of my apron with a blank expression- What an awkward woman am I. My heart has longed for him as hugely and openly as a full moonBut instead I narrow my eyes, and my glance to him Is sharp and narrow as the crescent moon. But then, I'm not the only one who behaves this way. My mother and my mother's mother were as silly and stumbling as I am when they were girls...Still, the love from my heart is overflowing, As bright and crimson as the heated metal in a blacksmith's forge.

How many fears came between us?Earthquakes, diseases, wars where hellrained smoldering pus from skies made of winged death.Horror tore this world asunder.While inside the bleeding smokeand beyond the shredded weeping fleshwe memorized tales of infinite good.--from The History Lesson

...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...

Kiss the lips upon me once, and I shall never tell.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!As tho’ to breathe were life!

We keep asking where they have gonethose years we remember and wereach for them like hands in the night

. . . chasing after words like trying to grab the tails of comets.

[…] but she cannot make him eat, like you.

Deep down,I lay dormant inside her head,Deep down,I lay the rules inside her head,Deep down,I lay inside inside her heart,Deep down,I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

There's no retirement for an artist,its your way of living so theres no end to it.

I fell in loveand then I became love.

Sometimes, looking at the many books I have at home, I feel I shall die before I come to the end of them, yet I cannot resist the temptation of buying new books. Whenever I walk into a bookstore and find a book on one of my hobbies — for example, Old English or Old Norse poetry — I say to myself, “What a pity I can’t buy that book, for I already have a copy at home.

Vandals listen only when others are stronger.If vandals are equal or strongerTheir word is the last word.

Nobody knows the aftermath.

It was only love,It only drove me to my knees.Rendering me hopelessLike an incurable disease.

Poetry Saved Me

A little learning is a dangerous thing.Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,and drinking largely sobers us again.

These dreams are disappearingSpeak and be misunderstood Or be silent and goodand as how far as it lookThese dreams are disappearing..Put hopes in a box and tieIt's either protect it or dieMaintain the truth or talk a lieThese dreams are disappearing..Mountains of gold and a lovely cata house by a lake and a lovely chata day in paradise and all of thatThese dreams are disappearing..Chase a purpose of life and doand be the one you wanted toand be with who have always wanted youThese dreams are disappearing..Run in pace and catch the sunRaise a family and have a sonBuild a home, not only oneThese dreams are disappearing..In daily wars like on regular basesIn daily problems a puzzled mazes In daily issues and complications These dreams are disappearing..Nothing is lost but nothing is healingAll is gone and all is leakingSome hope to hold on to and keep dreamingAlthough these dreams are disappearing...Ahmed Adel Hassona

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

Don't fuckin' sleep on yourself

Love will find you when you least expect it to. It will come unannounced and find you in an unusual moment on the strangest of days!

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.

The night is still waiting.

I can't remember the poemThat pierced through my heartIt was the saddest I heardOf all truths ever spokenIt left a scar in meA wound that doesn't healBut the words are forgottenSo is a big part of me

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

I breathe in...the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

Disease often comes with a smiling face.

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone

VILLAIN.By Omrane Khuder.Staggering, tripping, stumbling down the tightrope,hastening to be set free.Yearning to be protected by the Superhero,before the Villain’s revulsion ingests me.Misplacing my footing on the tightrope,hands sweltering as the rope is pulled away.Glancing down at the fire below me,the chuckling Villain has won today.Little did I know, it was He setting me free.Little did I know, the tightrope was me.

Life into death— Life’s other shape, No rupture, Only crossing.

LOVE the hideous in order to find the sublime core of it.

The heart, I think, which is the home of all things rhythmic, is where learned poems go to live.

I AM 27 YEARS OLD"If as a baby you can remain,Then in my bosom you’d always stay.And my need to love and care,Will only grow stronger without shadow or fear.By no one could my love be taken away, For you'd be the reason why I live today.And my Love; for this my life will stay, If my baby you'd forever remain.

People run around looking for millions of likes in their life and on the social media but do you know what? If you get just one true like from just one who loves you the most, it surpasses all other millions. God loves you the most even without make over.

Listen closely. Even the trees exhale sweet love songs that roll off their boughs and echo out to all of creation. Love is always in the air.

sekali berarti sesudah itu mati

One day I might feel Mean,And squinched up inside,Like a mouth sucking on a Lemon.The next day I couldFeelWhole and happyAnd right,Like an unbitten apple.

Shut lips, sleeping faces,Every stopped machine,The dumb and littered placesWhere crowds have been:.All silences rejoice,Weep (loudly or low),Speak-but with the voiceOf whom, I do not know.

HereI'm here-the snow falling.

Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,Its gloom and scarcity;Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,Toiled quiet Memory.’Tis she that from each transient pleasureExtracts a lasting good;’Tis she that finds, in summer, treasureTo serve for winter’s food.And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,And Age brings Winter’s stress,Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,Life’s evening hours will bless.

‘Paradise Lost’ was printed in an edition of no more than 1,500 copies and transformed the English language. Took a while. Wordsworth had new ideas about nature: Thoreau read Wordsworth, Muir read Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt read Muir, and we got a lot of national parks. Took a century. What poetry gives us is an archive, the fullest existent archive of what human beings have thought and felt by the kind of artists who loved language in a way that allowed them to labor over how you make a music of words to render experience exactly and fully.

From time to timeI once wondered how one wanders from time to timeAnd think up the paradox lineSpeak of Epoch's crimeOh I lied, it hasn't happened yetBut bet you better believe it's such a habit thatI just said that in a past mindset

May your love for me be likethe scent of the evening seadrifting inthrough a quiet windowso i do not have to runor chase or fall... to feel youall i have to dois breathe.

I suppose that's how it looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry…and I think it's nicer…' Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed… 'to look at it through poetry.