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poetry
poetry - Bilingual quotes that celebrate the beauty of language, showcasing meaningful expressions in two unique perspectives.
Lewis Carroll
One! two! and through and throughThe vorpal blade went snickersnack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.
Victor Hugo
Do you remember our sweet life, when we were so young, and that we had no other desire at the heart than being well put on and being in love, when by adding your age, we did not count at two forty years, and that, in our humble and little household, everything, even winter, we were spring?
William Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Richard Russo
It was a scary thought. A man could be surrounded by poetry reading and not know it.
Robert Frost
I would not come in.I meant not even if asked,And I hadn't been.
Robert Frost
GATHERING LEAVESSpades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons.I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away.But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face.I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then?Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color.Next to nothing for use.But a crop is a crop
Robert Frost
Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason
Robert Frost
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningWhose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.
Vladimir Nabokov
The kind of poem I produced in those days was hardly anything more than a sign I made of being alive, of passing or having passed, or hoping to pass, through certain intense human emotions. It was a phenomenon of orientation rather than of art, thus comparable to stripes of paint on a roadside rock or to a pillared heap of stones marking a mountain trail.
Albert Camus
As if this great outburst of anger had purged all my ills, killed all my hopes, I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world- and finding it so much like myself, in fact so fraternal, I realized that I'd been happy, and that I was still happy. For the final consummation and for me to feel less lonely, my last wish was that there should be a crowd of spectators at my execution and that they should greet me with cries of hatred.
Peter S. Beagle
{The unicorn} sighed and plodded on, both amused and disappointed. It serves you right, she told herself. You know better than to expect a butterfly to know your name. All they know are songs and poetry, and anything else they hear. They mean well, but they can't keep things straight. And why should they, they die so soon.
Sylvia Plath
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
Philip Roth
Conflicting stories continue to circulate concerning the death of the President. A second White House announcement has now called attention to the President's schedule for the day, pointing out that no mention is made there of dying. Also released was the President's schedule for tomorrow, wherein there also appears to be no plan on the part of the President or his advisers for him to die. I think it would be best, said the White House Bilge Secretary, in the light of these schcedules, to wait for a statement, one way or another, from the President himself.
Sylvia Plath
Its snaky acids kiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.
Sylvia Plath
How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
Sylvia Plath
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Sylvia Plath
But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
Sylvia Plath
O love, how did you get here?--Nick and the Candlestick
Sylvia Plath
The blood jet is poetryThere is no stopping it.
Sylvia Plath
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.{I think I made you up inside my head.}
Emily Dickinson
Inebriate of Air - am I -And Debauchee of Dew -Reeling - thro endless summer days -From Inns of Molten Blue
Emily Dickinson
I held a jewel in my fingersAnd went to sleep.The day was warm, and winds were prosy;I said: "'T will keep."I woke and chid my honest fingers,-The gem was gone;And now an amethyst remembranceIs all I own.
Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
Emily Dickinson
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind-As if my Brain had split-I tried to match it-Seam by Seam-But could not make it fit.
Emily Dickinson
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 birdThat kept so many warm.I've heard it in the chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
Emily Dickinson
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there 's a pair of us-don't tell! They 'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!
Alice Walker
Becauseyou rubbed my shoulderlast nighta poe
George Eliot
You are a poem--and that is to be the best part of a poet--what makes up thepoet's consciousness in his best moods.
Harold Bloom
Every poet begins {however 'unconsciously'} by rebelling more strongly against the fear of death than all other men and women do.
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Where there's bluster, thinks Luisa, there's duplicity
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