Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tune without the words - and never stops at all.
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Just like moons and suns, With certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.
In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said.
At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.
Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way.
Your heart is the size of an ocean. Go find yourself in its hidden depths.
This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.
It is Love that holds everything together, and it is the everything also.
Love is the soul’s light, the taste of morning, no me, no we, no claim of being.
Silence is an ocean. Speech is a river. When the ocean is searching for you, don’t walk into the river. Listen to the ocean.
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them.
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies, With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies, When love is done.
For an artist, to be normal is a disaster.
In the very end, civilizations perish because they listen to their politicians and not to their poets.