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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #poe
Sin prevenciones me doy vuelta y siguen aquellos dos a la izquierda del roble eternos y escondidos en la lluvia diciéndose quién sabe qué silencios. No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes pero cuando la lluvia cae sobre el Botánico aquí se quedan sólo los fantasmas. Ustedes pueden irse. Yo me quedo. ↗
We must remember that there is a great difference between a myth and a miracle. A myth is the idealization of a fact. A miracle is the counterfeit of a fact. There is the same difference between a myth and a miracle that there is between fiction and falsehood -- between poetry and perjury. Miracles belong to the far past and the far future. The little line of sand, called the present, between the seas, belongs to common sense to the natural. ↗
Although I've written a few (a very few) poems over the years, I am not a natural poet...and I remain in awe of people who are. The ability to evoke deep emotion, reveal a new facet of the world, or condense an entire story into the limited space and form of a poem (or likewise, of a good song lyric, or the text for a children's picture book) seems like pure magic to me. ↗
The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on the centre. For the world is not painted, or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful; and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manual skill and activity is the first merit of all men, and disparages such as say and do not, overlooking the fact, that some men, namely, poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of expression, and confounds them with those whose province is action, but who quit it to imitate the sayers. The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he writes primarily what will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, in respect to him, secondaries and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building materials to an architect. ↗
Rosa Mystica 'The rose is a mystery'--where is it found? Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground? It was made of earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes, And its place is a secret and shut in the skies. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, Find me a place by thee, mother of mine. But where was it formerly? Which is the spot That was blest in it once, though now it is not? It is Galilee's growth: it grew at God's will And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine. What was its season then? How long ago? When was the summer that saw the bud blow? Two thousands of years are near upon past Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine. Tell me the name now, tell me its name. The heart guesses easily: is it the same? Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows, She is the mystery, she is that rose. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall come home to thee, mother of mine. Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree? But the blossom, the blossom there--who can it be? Who can her rose be? It could but be One Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine. What was the colour of that blossom bright?-- White to begin with, immaculate white. But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood! In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine. How many leaves had it?--Five they were then, Five, like the senses and members of men; Five is their number by nature, but now They multiply, multiply--who can tell how? In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine. Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place? Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace: The breath of it bathes great heaven above In grace that is charity, grace that is love. To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine Draw me by charity, mother of mine. ↗
Nature, it seems, is the popular name for milliards and milliards and milliards of particles playing their infinite game of billiards and billiards and billiards. ↗
