Hart Crane Short Quotes

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Let my lusts be my ruin, then, since all else is a fake and a mockery.

Hart Crane
The apple on its bough is her desire,—
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.

Hart Crane
And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings.

Hart Crane
Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks, A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene.

Hart Crane
We have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can.

Hart Crane
Damp tonnage and alluvial march of days... Tortured with history, its one will — flow!

Hart Crane
Stars scribble on our eyes the frosty sagas,
The gleaming cantos of unvanquished space.

Hart Crane
High in the azure steeps Monody shall not wake the mariner. This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

Hart Crane
The phonographs of hades in the brain Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love A burnt match skating in a urinal —

Hart Crane
We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.

Hart Crane
There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

Hart Crane
It was a kind and northern face That mingled in such exile guise The everlasting eyes of Pierrot And, of Gargantua, the laughter.

Hart Crane
But the star-glistered salver of infinity, The circle, blind crucible of endless space, Is sluiced by motion, — subjugated never.

Hart Crane
His thoughts, delivered to me
From the white coverlet and pillow,
I see now, were inheritances—
Delicate riders of the storm.

Hart Crane
And biased by full sails, meridians reel Thy purpose — still one shore beyond desire! The sea's green crying towers a-sway, Beyond.

Hart Crane
One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper patterns at the right moment.

Hart Crane
Yes, Walt,
Afoot again, and onward without halt, –
Not soon, nor suddenly, – no, never to let go
My hand
in yours,
Walt Whitman –
so –

Hart Crane
Ah, madame! truly it's not right
When one isn't the real Gioconda,
To adapt her methods and deportment
For snaring the poor world in a blue funk.

Hart Crane
O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

Hart Crane
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Hart Crane
The swift red flesh, a winter king—
Who squired the glacier woman down the sky?
She ran the neighing canyons all the spring;
She spouted arms; she rose with maize—to die.

Hart Crane
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,

Hart Crane
We left the haven hanging in the night –
Sheened harbor lanterns backward fled the keel.
Pacific here at time's end, bearing corn. –
Eyes stammer through the pangs of dust and steel.

Hart Crane
Slagged of the hurricane—I, cast within its flow, Congeal by afternoons here, satin and vacant. You have given me the shell, Satan,—carbonic amulet Sere of the sun exploded in the sea.

Hart Crane
And so it was I entered the broken world To trace the visionary company of love, its voice An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled) But not for long to hold each desperate choice.

Hart Crane