And in the vine of the divine, There is a fine line;Between tragedy and comedy,That a man cannot define.

When I composed those verses I was preoccupied less with music than with an experience—an experience in which that beautiful musical allegory had shown its moral side, had become an awakening and a summons to...

Following dark winter’s strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,Which cold human hands have wrought,And where none shall dare restrain usWe can meet again, in thought.

The House Was Quiet and the World Was CalmThe house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house...

I am a free soul, singing my heart out by myself no matter where I go and I call strangers my friends because I learn things and find ways to fit them into my own...

Art too is just a way of living.

From quiet homes and first beginning,Out to the undiscovered ends,There’s nothing worth the wear of winning,But laughter and the love of friends.

Kesalahan bukan milikmu.Tapi milikku seutuhnya.Aku yang bersalah.Karena tak mampu mengendalikan harapanku.

There is a master way with words which is not learned but is instead developed: a deaf man develops exceptional vision, a blind man exceptional hearing, a silent man, when given a piece of paper…

A Hard Life With MemoryI’m a poor audience for my memory.She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,but I fidget, fuss,listen and don’t,step out, come back, then leave again.She wants all my time and attention.She’s...

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doorsMany a frozen night, and merrilyAnswered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:”At Mrs Greenland’s Hawthorn Bush,” said he,”I slept.” None knew which bush. Above the town,Beyond...

One does not become a poet by uttering beautiful words. One becomes a poet by pouring their soul as wine into the Cup of Love.

Die Herren der Information haben die Poesie aus dem Auge verloren, wo Worte eine Bedeutung haben können, die sehr von der im Lexikon angegebenen abweicht, wo der metaphorische Funke der Dechiffrierfunktion immer einen Sprung voraus...

Song of myselfA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess...

The distinctive features of the world’s civilisations are not simply and solely the giraffe and the city of Rome, as the children may perhaps have been led to imagine on the first evening, but also...

When the words have been said and the music has been played, feelings are the only form of art which will remain to reign. (Soar)

One fine day, in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other. They pulled out their swords and shot one another. One deaf cop,...

How you die out in me:down to the lastworn-out knot of breathyou’re there, with a splinter of life.

Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

Dahulu aku sering bertanya sendiri; kalau puisi itu berwujudakan seperti apakah dia? Matahari? Bulan? Bintang? Gunung?Laut? Bertahun lalu aku temukan puisi memancar mancar dari matamu,masuk ke dalam tubuhku. Seperti yang kau duga pada akhirnyaaku tahu...

I would love to saythat youmake meweak in the kneesbutto be quite upfrontand completelytruthfulyoumake my bodyforgetit has kneesat all.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,For thou must die.

We are all poets, really.

He’d been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—We murder to dissect.

Bring to me, it said, continual proof / you’ve been alive.

maybe silent hurting is the new Mid-Western love

When You Are OldWhen you are old and grey and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once,...

My Inner LifeTis true my garments threadbare are,And sorry poor I seem;But inly I am richer farThan any poet’s dream.For I’ve a hidden life no oneCan ever hope to see;A sacred sanctuary noneMay share with...

With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not — they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry...

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I.

…mi corazón es reino del espanto.

I think that at a certain age, say fifteen or sixteen, poetry is like masturbation. But later in life good poets burn their early poetry, and bad poets publish it. Thankfully I gave up rather...

He drove his mind into the abyss where poetry is written.

Otter! Otter! Otter!Don’t lead cows to slaughter!I love you, and I knowI should’ve told you soon-aBut you didn’t buy the dolphin-safe tuna!

clouds very high looknot one word helped them get up there

Freud thought that a psychosis was a waking dream, and that poets were daydreamers too, but I wonder if the reverse is not as often true, and that madness is a fiction lived in like...

I define influence simply as literary love, tempered by defense. The defenses vary from poet to poet. But the overwhelming presence of love is vital to understanding how great literature works.

Who is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in...

I know the placeI know the place.It is true.Everything we doCorrects the spaceBetween death and meAnd you.

Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What...

As often as we made love I remembered what my poet told me, that this man was born of a goddess, the force that moves the stars and the waves of the sea and couples...

Il sempre è fatto di attimi.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

Everything is all right,When you’re here,When you’re right next to me,When my hand is in yours,Don’t leave me,Don’t leave me empty handed.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

Free verse is like free love; it is a contradiction in terms.