In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column:
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column:
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
read more

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"--
There is a place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stires and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

CONSIDERING THE VOID
When I behold the charm
of evening skies, their lulling endurance;
the patterns of stars with read more

CONSIDERING THE VOID
When I behold the charm
of evening skies, their lulling endurance;
the patterns of stars with names
of bears and dogs, a swan, a virgin;
other planets that the Voyager showed
were like and so unlike our own,
with all their diverse moons,
bright discs, weird rings, and cratered faces;
comets with their streaming tails
bent by pressure from our sun;
the skyscape of our Milky Way
holding in its shimmering disc
an infinity of suns
(or say a thousand billion);
knowing there are holes of darkness
gulping mass and even light,
knowing that this galaxy of ours
is one of multitudes
in what we call the heavens,
it troubles me. It troubles me.
-President Jimmy Carter- (he has written a volume of poetry as well as a novel, The Hornet's Nest,
about the Revolutionary War).

If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.

If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, read more

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
read more

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?

The true poem is the poet's mind.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.

Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny.

For there is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a
biography, the life of a read more

For there is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a
biography, the life of a man; also, it may be said, there is no
life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its
sort, rhymed or unrhymed.