Poetry Quotes

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“In the prison of his daysTeach the free man how to praise” ―W.H. Auden
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“He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker’s cough in the hall.” ―Seamus Heaney
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“He said he’d hurt himself against a wall or had fallen down.But there was probably some other reason for the wounded, the bandaged shoulder.With a rather abrupt gesture, reaching for a shelf to bring down some photographs he wanted to look at, the bandage came came undone and a little blood ran.I did it up again, taking my time over the binding; he wasn’t in pain and I liked looking at the blood. It was a thing of my love, that blood.When he left, I found, in front of his chair, a bloody rag, part of the dressing, a rag to be thrown straight into the garbage; and I put it to my lips and kept it there a long while- the blood of love against my lips.” ―C.P. Cavafy
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“Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll,In pleasing memory of all he stole.” ―Alexander Pope,The Dunciad
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“In those days I used to talk to myself as if reciting poetry.” ―Haruki Murakami,Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
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“إنني الآنَ أُقيمُ في ساقيةٍ واحدةٍ يَمُرُّ فيها أشباحُ من مَرُّوا على حياتي فأَفسَدوها” ―علي محمود خضير
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“Hesitate once, hesitate twice, hesitate a hundred times before employing political standards as a device for the analysis and appreciation of poetry.” ―Christopher Hitchens,Unacknowledged Legislation: Writers in the Public Sphere
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“…fine love poetry tends to be written when the object of one’s affection is at a safe distance; also, it often reflects a love of words more than a love of women…” ―Kate Fox,Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour
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“Please lift your snowy skies off my soul -Your diamond dreams slice through my veins” ―Else Lasker-Schüler
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“You alone in Europe are not ancient oh ChristianityThe most modern European is you Pope Pius XAnd you whom the windows observe shame keeps youFrom entering a church and confessing this morningYou read the prospectuses the catalogues the billboards that sing aloudThat’s the poetry this morning and for the prose there are the newspapersThere are the 25 centime serials full of murder mysteriesPortraits of great men and a thousand different headlines(“Zone”)” ―Guillaume Apollinaire,Zone
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“I dragged myself to my feet, and with my hellhound in tow started off once more through the fastness of the wood, feeling, as the poet did before me, that my companion would be with me through the nights and through the days and down the arches of the years, and I should never be rid of him.” ―Daphne du Maurier,The Scapegoat
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“The glamorous splender of a mystical moon.. Natures sleepless wonders.” ―Shamima Mulla
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“Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to seeMen not afraid of God afraid of me.” ―Alexander Pope
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“How do I learn to speakwhen silence is all I know?” ―Susie Clevenger,Dirt Road Dreams
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“The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.” ―Sylvia Plath,Ariel
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“That’s the thing about love It can take you up to the mountaintop and can drop you And the impact will either kill you or make you a new person” ―Kehinde Sonola,Klosophy
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“Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despairOf not being able to expressWith a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,The bleeding of my heart.” ―Fernando Pessoa,A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems
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“This man has talent, that man geniusAnd here’s the strange and cruel difference:Talent gives pence and his reward is gold,Genius gives gold and gets no more than pence.” ―William Henry Davies
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“What is this life so full of care,We don’t have time to stand and stare.” ―William Henry Davies,The Collected Poems of William H. Davies; With a Portrait
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“Only–but this is rare–When a beloved hand is laid in ours,When, jaded with the rush and glareOf the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,When our world-deafen’d earIs by the tones of a loved voice caress’d–A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,And hears its winding murmur; and he seesThe meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.” ―Matthew Arnold,The Poems of Matthew Arnold 1849 – 1867