After the final no there comes a yes / And on that yes the future world depends.

But I was youngand didn’t know betterand someone should have told me to capture every secondevery kiss & every nightBecause now I’m sitting here alone and it’s getting really hard to breath because tears are...

A billion stars go spinning through the night, / glittering above your head, / But in you is the presence that will be / when all the stars are dead.

Sometimes you need to sit lonely on the floor in a quiet room in order to hear your own voice and not let it drown in the noise of others.

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough

For you was I born, for you do I have life, for you will I die, for you am I now dying.

How do god fit him ass in them jeans when he is, in fact, Everywhere

Les enfants qui s’aiment s’embrassent deboutContre les portes de la nuitEt les passants qui passent les désignent du doigtMais les enfants qui s’aimentNe sont là pour personneEt c’est seulement leur ombreQui tremble dans la nuitExcitant...

He taught me to be a Da Vinci and I sit here, with his portraits waiting for him to returnI do not think he willIs that what it means to be humanto be all powerful,...

Anger is easier than forgiveness.

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn’d love; But now I think there is no unreturn’d love—the pay is certain, one way or another; (I loved a...

O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence; liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude…

Whenever I learn a new word, I feel strong, for I discover a new world. Whenever I share a word, I feel weak: I give away a sparkle of my dreams. (Soar)

Fare well we call to hearth and hallThough wind may blow and rain may fallWe must away ere break of dayOver the wood and mountain tallTo Rivendell where Elves yet dwellIn glades beneath the misty...

If it ain’t a pleasure, it ain’t a poem.

You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary,Let not our naive labours have been in vain!

[The Old Astronomer to His Pupil]Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;He may know the law of all things,...

for the nightHath been to me a more familiar faceThan that of man, and in her starry shadeOf dim and solitary lovelinessI learned the language of another world.

Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacationWhere trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses

Poets and intellectuals…are the ones the tyrants go after first.

One writes a poem when one is so taken up by an emotional concept that one is unable to remain silent.

It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends

When true love broke my heart in half,I took the whiskey from the shelf,And told my neighbors when to laugh.I keep a dog, and bark myself.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide,...

…Feel no fear before the multitude of men, do not run in panic,but let each man bear his shield straight toward the fore-fighters,regarding his own life as hateful and holding the dark spirits of death...

PLEASE TELL ME YOU KNOW OF SYLVIA PLATHConventions bleed my soulsqueeze me oldwear me grey like a headstone in transit.It’s tradition and form—fear of the unknown—driving me deadin tight spaces darkly.I cry aloudbut who can...

You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search.

My name used to be in the papers dailyAs having dined somewhere,Or traveled somewhere,Or rented a house in Paris,Where I entertained the nobility.I was forever eating or traveling,Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.Now I am...

Some people spend their whole lives seeking heaven, when all they needed to do was look about them, and embrace that which was already there.

For what is a dream if not love first felt and what is mystery if not life itself

Only poetry isn’t shit.

It [Bach’s cello suites] is like a great diamond,” said [Mischa] Maisky in a thick Russian accent, “with so many different cuts that reflect light in so many different ways.

La grandeza concreta de la poesía, como la de la vida, consiste en no estar hecha.

Memory, when it juts, retreats, recovers, shows us how to hold the darkness, how to breathe.

…and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?

Sam, Sam, quite contrary,bought a budgie,wanted a canary.Sam, Sam, quite contrary, kissed Suzannah,meant to kiss Marry.Sam, Sam, quite contrary,dressed as a pirate,playing a fairy.Sam Sam quite contrary,ate dark chocolate,says he likes diary.Sam, Sam, quite contarary,shaved...

Don’t be so quick to count out the teenagers. Some of the world’s greatest changes, brilliant poetry, and innovations have come from the teenage mind.

Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little...

Self-love isn’t always so poetic; sometimes it’s a nice big triple back flip kick in the ass. You’ve got to call yourself on your own nonsense; on the incredibly efficient way you can be self-destructive.

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.

When you left you left behind a fieldof silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds…you left a million butterfliesmid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you...

I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,icily free above the stones,above the stones and then the world.If you should dip your hand in,your wrist would...

the sapphire depthof my own love…startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

… Up telephone poles, Which rear, half out of leavageAs though they would shriekLike things smothered by their ownGreen, mindless, unkillable ghosts.In Georgia, the legend saysThat you must close your windowsAt night to keep it...

May youalways haveopenbreezy spacesin your mind.

Behold yon rough and flinty roadWhere youth, now youth no more,Gropes whining, seeking crumbs of loavesHe cast away of yore.

we always knewthat good times camewith termination contractseven if we weren’t quite readyto sign it.

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses.It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no...

slow down, oh sweet tearsflowing nectar…down my lashes’ tipssomedaysomeone will kiss you away,even before you can reach my lips.

And oft the blessed time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical, as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.