Of trees I (Krishna) am the fig.

Of trees I (Krishna) am the fig.

Poetry is one of the destinies of speech... One would say that the poetic image, in its newness, opens a read more

Poetry is one of the destinies of speech... One would say that the poetic image, in its newness, opens a future to language.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may read more

The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never. School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past.

A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been read more

A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed read more

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.".

It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once
a poem.

It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once
a poem.

A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof.

A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof.

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.