19th-century Poet Quotes
I tasted - careless - then -
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World - Did you?
Oh, had you told me so -
This Thirst would blister - easier - now
To the dreary wail
There's no knowing what
Love is all about.
Poets know a lot.
She moves the way clocks move. And on her face, as on a clock dial which someone shines a light onto at night, a strange, briefly shown hour stands: a terrifying hour, in which someone dies.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Nobody ever told me what to read, or ever put poetry in my way
Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the observing world.
Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure?
What we pay for with our lives never costs too much.
Beautiful... as the fortuitous encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table.
Comte de Lautréamont
When all is said and done, monotony may after all be the best condition for creation.
Lady Margaret Sackville
Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.
" Tis plain to me
As A B C,
My dear friend, Mr. Neff!"
"Oh, yes! but then,"
Says Mr. N,
"You know I'm D E F!"
Charles Follen Adams
Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I'd be
Nearer, my God, to Thee.
Sarah Fuller Flower Adams
If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
Sleep on your writing; take a walk over it; scrutinize it of a morning; review it of an afternoon; digest it after a meal; let it sleep in your drawer a twelvemonth; never venture a whisper about it to your friend, if he be an author especially.
Amos Bronson Alcott
Do no sinful action, speak no angry word; ye belong to Jesus, children of the Lord.
Cecil Frances Alexander
There is no mystery about the authorship of Shakespeare's plays. They were not written by Shakespeare at all. They were all written by a total stranger, about whom all we know is that he was called Shakespeare.
The within is ceaselessly becoming the without. From the state of a man's heart doth proceed the conditions of his life; his thoughts blossom into deeds, and his deeds bear the fruitage of character and destiny.
A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventfulthen, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.
Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.
For ivy climbs the crumbling hall To decorate decay.
Philip James Bailey
As I go musing through this mournful land
Soothed by the pine-tree's solemn harmony,
Thy well-loved image comes and walks by me.
I seem to hold thee by the gentle hand
And talk of things I dimly understand,
That thy dear spirit set to mine may be
As to an intricate lock the simple key.
What men have done can still be done
And shall be done today.
The wild geese—the wild geese,—'tis long since they flew,
O'er the billowy ocean's bright bosom of blue.
Michael Joseph Barry
If wine were to disappear from human production, I believe it would cause an absence, a failure in health and intellect, a void much more terrifying than all the recesses and the deviations for which wine is regarded as responsible.
It is a fact that not once in all my life have I gone out for a walk. I have been taken out for walks; but that is another matter.
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Philip James Bailey
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