Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production read more

Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind.

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all read more

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

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.

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I read more

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

The poet's expression of joy conceals his despair at not having found the reality of joy.

The poet's expression of joy conceals his despair at not having found the reality of joy.

No poems can please for long or live that are written by water drinkers.

No poems can please for long or live that are written by water drinkers.

Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.

Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.

A poet is a man who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning read more

A poet is a man who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times.

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
read more

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"--
There is a place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stires and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!