Poetry Quotes

Not yesterday I learned to know,The love of bare November days,Before the coming of the snow.

I end not far from my going forth,By picking the faded blue;Of the last remaining aster flower,To carry again to you.

Summoning artists to participate, In the august occasions of the state; Seems something artists ought to celebrate,Today is for my cause a day of days.

That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length.

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.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for it.

Clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.

Dark clouds become heaven's flowers when kissed by light.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Once we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.

YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,' said the dewdrop to the lake.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

Oh, grant me my prayer, that I may never lose the touch of the one in the play of the many.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.

It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

The trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.