Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
What concerns me fundamentaly is a meteoric burlesk melodrama, born of the immemorial adage love will find a way.
love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark
things which in my mind blossom will stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise appear capable of fragility and indecision
I love you much most beautiful darling more than anyone on the earth and I like you better than everything in the sky.
Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell- measure imagine,mystery,a kiss -not though mankind would rather know than feel
-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do, we’ll move away still further:into now
the poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople... you and i are human beings; mostpeople are snobs.
-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.
one pierced moment whiter than the rest -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes
a man who had fallen among thieves lay by the roadside on his back dressed in fifteenthrate ideas wearing a round jeer for a hat
Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.
Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
Peering from some high window; at the gold of November sunset (and feeling that if day has to become night this is a beautiful way).
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.
Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)
What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid down with ought with because with every brain which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel.
i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
what if a much of a which of a wind gives the truth to summer's lie; bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun and yanks immortal stars awry?
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.
The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to be rich, and the constant traveler saying 'anywhere but here'.
Whatever's merely willful, and not miraculous (be never it so skilful) must wither fail and cease - but better than to grow beauty knows no.
wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers.
...sunlight is (life and day are)only loaned:whereas night is given(night and death and the rain are given;and given is how beautifully snow)
The hardest fight a man has to fight is to live in a world where every single day someone is trying to make you someone you do not want to be--
A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers, you open petal by petal myself a Spring opens her first rose.
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream
You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.
All which isn't singing is mere talking... and all talking's to oneself alone but the very song of (as mountains feel and lovers) singing is silence.
my mother hoped that i would die etcetera bravely of course my father used to become hoarse talking about how it was a privilege and if only he could
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being.
May my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if its sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young
hate blows a bubble of despair into hugeness world system universe and bang -fear buries a tomorrow under woe and up comes yesterday most green and young
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips)
The intellectuals' chief cause of anguish are one another's works. Jacques Barzun, 1959 all ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds
So, when kiss Spring comes we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss lips because tic clocks tock don't make a toctic difference to kisskiss you and to kiss me.
i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)
The theory of the free press is not that the truth will be presented completely or perfectly in any one instance, but that the truth will emerge from free discussion
you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become you;and if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living. Whatever they sing is better than to know. And if men should not hear them - then men are old.
It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.
Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers