Poetry is life distilled.

Poetry is life distilled.

For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have read more

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have suffered the pain of loss, and the more wearing, continuous pain of frustration and failure; and have had moods of unlooked-for release and peace. They have known and watched in themselves and others.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.

The true teacher defends his pupils against his own personal influence. He inspires self-distrust. He guides their eyes from himself read more

The true teacher defends his pupils against his own personal influence. He inspires self-distrust. He guides their eyes from himself to the spirit that quickens him. He will have no disciple.

Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of read more

Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of stars! - Caliban in the Coal Mines.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have read more

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all. - In Memoriam.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

Every man's memory is his private literature.