Poetry By Famous Poets Quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Robert Frost, Rudyard Kipling, W. H. Auden, Emily Dickinson, George Sand and many others.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
Keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life.
Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal but which the reader recognizes as his own.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does.
Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science.
No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher.
There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date . . .
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date . . .
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