Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.

For me, poetry is an impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.

For me, poetry is an impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love read more

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.

Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production read more

Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind.