#try

A poet is simply an artist whose medium is human emotions.  A poet chisels away at our own sensibilities, shaping our vision while molding our hearts.  A poet wraps words around our own feelings and presents them as fresh gifts to humanity. ↗

— Richelle E. Goodrich

#inspirational-quotes #poet #poetry #richelle #richelle-goodrich

Forgive me, joy, if I blasphemed you before I learned to love. ↗

— Milan Rúfus

#forgiveness

Lifes like a painters palette, just when you've got everything worked out the colours change ↗

— Benny Bellamacina

#philosophical #philosophy #poetry #wisdom #wisdom-quote

You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it? Yes. Mrs. Whatsit said. You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you. ↗

— Madeleine L'Engle

#freedom

Think of what starlight And lamplight would lack Diamonds and fireflies If they couldn’t lean against Black. . . . ↗

— Mary O'Neill

#book #color #inspiration #mary #o-neill

Love's night and a lamp Judged our vows: That she would love me ever And I should never leave her. Love's night and you, lamp, Witnessed the pact. Today the vow runs: "Oaths such as these, waterwords." Tonight, lamp, Witness her lying - In other arms. ↗

— Meleager

#love #poetry #love

...in India ink your writing is lovely, but not as lovely as your hand - it is your hand - I know your hand - it fits so well in mine ... ↗

— John Geddes

#handwriting #love #poetry-love #love

I versi partono da una testa e arrivano ad un’altra su una traiettoria invisibile e producono la vita impalpabile delle emozioni: graffi sull’anima prodotti da sogni lucidi che lanciano una solida gomena fra quello che siamo e quello che siamo stati, fra noi e noi a ricordarci che la via più breve, dalla testa al cuore, è sempre un’arabesco. ↗

— Barbara Frediani

#love #poetry #love

A.E.Housman' No one, not even Cambridge was to blame (Blame if you like the human situation): Heart-injured in North London, he became The Latin Scholar of his generation. Deliberately he chose the dry-as-dust, Kept tears like dirty postcards in a drawer; Food was his public love, his private lust Something to do with violence and the poor. In savage foot-notes on unjust editions He timidly attacked the life he led, And put the money of his feelings on The uncritical relations of the dead, Where only geographical divisions Parted the coarse hanged soldier from the don. ↗

— W.H. Auden

#food

different among the others You're at the center of my universe ↗

— patrick cruz

#love