#poetry

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind- loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies in the perfumed heat of summer night. ↗

— Mark Strand

#nostalgia #poetry #regret #imagination

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart. ↗

— Algernon Charles Swinburne

#poetry #love

Virtually everyone needs motivation of some sort, but when you are in love - that is motivation enough, it turns many into poets and painters, it spurs the creativity in you. ↗

— Bernard Kelvin Clive

#motivation #poetry-quotes #love

This is the creature there has never been. They never knew it, and yet, none the less, they loved the way it moved, its suppleness, its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene. Not there, because they loved it, it behaved as though it were. They always left some space. And in that clear unpeopled space they saved it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace of not being there. They fed it, not with corn, but only with the possibility of being. And that was able to confer such strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn. Whitely it stole up to a maid - to be within the silver mirror and in her. ↗

— Rainer Maria Rilke

#love

We of the fatherless tribe love men differently. ↗

— Gina Loring

#love

In the front yard lives the oldest thing around, a white oak That I used to say is my love for the world, That I now would just call love as it is. Belonging to nobody, no metaphor, the very. ↗

— Coleman Barks

#nature #poetry #spirituality #love

It nods and curtseys and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of lovers That hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the lover That hanged himself for love. ↗

— A.E. Housman

#love

I don't understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar! ↗

— Margarita Engle

#love

There is the staircase, there is the sun. There is the kitchen, the plate with toast and strawberry jam, your subterfuge, your ordinary mirage. You stand red-handed. You want to wash yourself in earth, in rocks and grass What are you supposed to do with all this loss? In the daylight we know what's gone is gone, but at night it's different. Nothing gets finished, not dying, not mourning; the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunks lurching sideways through the doors we open to them in sleep; these slurred guests, never entirely welcome, even those we have loved the most, especially those we have loved the most, returning from where we shoved them away too quickly: from under the ground, from under the water, they clutch at us, they clutch at us, we won't let go. ↗

— Margaret Atwood

#poetry #love

...loving a fairy lady with a magic song will leave you desolate on a cold hillside ... but from there you can see the stars... ↗

— John Geddes

#fairy #magic #poetry #stars #love