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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #poet
Last night your thin walls invited me to the party next door / reminded me I am a quiet person in a quiet life. ↗
#poem #poetry #quiet #quiet-life #quiet-mind
Distance and antiquity (the emphases of space and time) pull on our hearts. If we are already sobered by the thought that men lived two thousand five hundred years ago, how could we not be moved to know that they made verses, were spectators of the world, that they sheltered in light, lasting words something of their ponderous, fleeting life, words that fulfill a long destiny? ↗
How To Make A Mountain Out Of A Molehill First you must pick your molehill, now here's a tip The smaller the better, tinier than the tiniest microchip From this speck you can conjure mountainous masses Of soaring peaks dropping into bottomless crevasses Slippery slopes, treacherous overhangs, avalanches Whipped up as quickly as fluffy blancmanges Glaciers forwardly creeping destroying as they go Even if they do it at a speed immeasurably slow The mountain forged from the molehill, easily soldered Can the molehill from the mountain so easily be moulded? I don't think you can hack it down with an axe The best way I can think of is to just relax ↗
#philosophy #poetry #life
Two things consistently bring me pleasure: hot sweet tea and writing. Which is not to say that either are particularly good for me…I use entirely too much sugar and so far don’t find sucralose to be a good alternative. Also, writing is not a practice that engenders confidence. Quite the opposite. It’s about making yourself deliberately insecure so that you can write the next thing and have it be worth reading. And that’s not even taking into consideration the business end of things, which can make you bitter if you’re not careful… But I’ve spent my the bulk of my life to date figuring out the right mix of fat and sugar in my tea and also, how to get incrementally better (I hope…) at the writing, so I’m not giving it/them up! ↗
There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. ↗
