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It is not enough that poetry is agreeable, it should also be interesting. [Lat., Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto.]
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It is uninspired inspiration.
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It is very difficult to pass from pleasure to work. Accordingly more poems have been swallowed up by sorrow than ever happiness caused to blaze forth in unparalleled radiance.
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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.
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It seems just possible that a poem might happen to a very young man: but a poem is not poetry — that is a life. T.S. Eliot quotes
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It’s August, and out my back window, I can see a little girl — seven, maybe — kissing bees, in her mother’s garden. She laughs wildly after every kiss; after every kiss she licks her lips and wipes them on her wrist. Her mother calls out from the kitchen window: Kathleen Elizabeth! I’m not telling you again! Stop kissing those bees! You’re gonna get stung! Kathleen Elizabeth pouts and stares wantonly at her bees in the blossoms. She seems enthralled by the buzzing throng. I wonder if she knows that, in Brittany, generations believed the tears Christ shed on the cross turned into bees, that according to Mohammed the bee is the only creature that God ever spoke to directly, that according to Herodotus, kings of Scythia were buried in beeswax. Maybe she was once chosen, having lived a former life in the Far East, where bees are believed to impart eloquence to a child of their choice. Maybe she intuits, somehow, that when Plato, Sophocles, and Xenophon were infants, bees alighted on their mouths. She must know something, because, now, she is singing to the bees, as people in England used to do, to keep their bees at home and happy. And, now, I can hear the thoughts that incite her desire, that arrive on the breeze, as the whole luminous day around her — and around me — seems to whisper: Kiss the bees! Kiss the bees!
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It’s easier to quote poets than to read them.
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It’s easy to write a love poem when you are in love.
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I”ve written some poetry I don”t understand myself.
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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch’d forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.
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Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
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Let your poem be kept nine years. [Lat., Nonumque prematur in annum.]
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Literature is a state of culture, poetry is a state of grace, before and after culture. Juan Ramon Jimenez quotes
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Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
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Lives there the man with soul so dead as to disown the wish to merit the people’s applause, and having uttered words worthy to be kept in cedar oil to latest times, to leave behind him rhymes that dread neither herrings nor frankincense. [Lat., An erit, qui velle recuset Os populi meruisse? et cedro digna locutus Linquere, nec scombros metuentia carmina nec thus.]
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LOVE’S LABOUR FOUND Let us vigil into the barren earth; Heal the wounds of barbed souls; Give our love and all our worth, Mending fragments into wholes; Reunite the unrequited, not one be lost; Nor, from beaconed towers
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