Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.

The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

Poetry comes from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow.

When I die, and people realize that I will not be resurrected in three days, they will forget me. That is the way it should be.

Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.

Except for the young or very happy, I can’t say I am sorry for anyone who dies.

Death, like birth, is a secret of Nature.

If I think more about death than some other people, it is probably because I love life more than they do.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.

As a medical doctor, I have known the face of adversity. I have seen much of death and dying, suffering and sorrow. I also remember the plight of students overwhelmed by their studies and of those striving to learn a foreign language. And I recall the fatigue and frustration felt by young parents with children in need.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.

To some extent I liken slavery to death.

What makes all doctrines plain and clear? About two hundred pounds a year. And that which was proved true before, prove false again? Two hundred more.

Science arose from poetry… when times change the two can meet again on a higher level as friends.

Sisters are brittle things. God was penurious with me, which makes me shrewd with Him. One is a dainty sum! One bird, one cage, one flight; one song in those far woods, as yet suspected by faith only!

Homeland or death! Socialism or death! We shall overcome!

I make preparations both to live and to die every day, but with the emphasis on not dying, and on acting as if I was going to carry on living.

I think, in many people’s minds, the Confederate battle flag is not only a memorial to our ancestors, which is perfectly OK, but also a symbol of white superiority and an inclination for people to believe that even slavery would’ve been OK.

Like many modern poets, I tend to conceal rhymes by placing them in the middle of lines, and to avoid immediate alliteration and assonance in favor of echoes placed later in the poems.

When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

I noticed words crudely spray-painted upon the wall, perhaps by a young Berliner: ‚This wall will fall. Beliefs become reality.‘ Yes, across Europe, this wall will fall. For it cannot withstand faith; it cannot withstand truth. The wall cannot withstand freedom.

It always seems to me so odd that when a man dies, he takes out with him all the knowledge that he has got in his lifetime whilst sowing his wild oats or winning successes. And he leaves his sons or younger brothers to go through all the work of learning it over again from their own experience.

My father had died, and very swiftly, too, of cancer of the esophagus. He was 79. I am 61. In whatever kind of a ‚race‘ life may be, I have very abruptly become a finalist.

As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

Humor has justly been regarded as the finest perfection of poetic genius.

Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.

What inspires me about rap is that it’s written in an almost poetic way. I just think it’s so cool.

Part of what made the Macintosh great was that the people working on it were musicians, poets, and artists, and zoologists, and historians. They also happened to be the best computer scientists in the world. But if it hadn’t been computer science, these people would have been doing amazing things in other fields.

There’s something about death that is comforting. The thought that you could die tomorrow frees you to appreciate your life now.

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

I read poetry to save time.

I’m nobody, who are you?

It is vain for the coward to flee; death follows close behind; it is only by defying it that the brave escape.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet’s heart when caught and tangled in a woman’s body?

Vampires get the joy of flying around and living forever, werewolves get the joy of animal spirits. But zombies, they’re not rich, or aristocratic, they shuffle around. They’re a group phenomenon, they’re not very fast, they’re quite sickly. So what’s the pleasure of being one?

Don’t be too harsh to these poems until they’re typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.

I have thought there was some advantage even in death, by which we mingle with the herd of common men.

Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.

And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish’d from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!

It was something I never expected to – I never expected the book would sell in the first place. I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of the reviewers.

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

It is as natural to die as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other.

Death means change our clothes. Clothes become old, then time to come change. So this body become old, and then time come, take young body.

Each life makes its own immitation of immortality.

Death and life have their determined appointments; riches and honors depend upon heaven.

And were an epitaph to be my story I’d have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die – and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.

Your body has space within you that cannot die.

The art of living well and the art of dying well are one.

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.

No one can outrun death. It will catch up to all of us eventually.

Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.

The poetry you read has been written for you, each of you – black, white, Hispanic, man, woman, gay, straight.

As the poet said, ‚Only God can make a tree,‘ probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.

Man weeps to think that he will die so soon; woman, that she was born so long ago.