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

Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?

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.

The genesis of a poem for me is usually a cluster of words. The only good metaphor I can think of is a scientific one: dipping a thread into a supersaturated solution to induce crystal formation. I don’t think I solve problems in my poetry; I think I uncover the problems.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world… to see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion all in one.

Iron rusts from disuse; water loses its purity from stagnation… even so does inaction sap the vigor of the mind.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.

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.

No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.

Literature, not scripture, sustains the mind and – since there is no other metaphor – also the soul.

You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lines. You may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.

The mind of the painter must resemble a mirror, which always takes the colour of the object it reflects and is completely occupied by the images of as many objects as are in front of it.

Any idea, plan, or purpose may be placed in the mind through repetition of thought.

Despair is a narcotic. It lulls the mind into indifference.

Every mind must make its choice between truth and repose. It cannot have both.

I must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up.

Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.

I write some country music. There’s a song called ‚I Hope You Dance.‘ Incredible. I was going to write that poem; somebody beat me to it.

I think that there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself than this incessant business.

Whenever the speech is corrupted so is the mind.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

Poetry has done enough when it charms, but prose must also convince.

I liked to write from the time I was about 12 or 13. I loved to read. And since I only spoke to my brother, I would write down my thoughts. And I think I wrote some of the worst poetry west of the Rockies. But by the time I was in my 20s, I found myself writing little essays and more poetry – writing at writing.

The mind unlearns with difficulty what it has long learned.

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing.

As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.

My brain and body and nervous system, they see a plane ride, a long plane trip, as an opportunity to sleep with nothing coming in, nothing to do. I just go offline the minute I’m on the plane.

If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.

Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, hast thou more of pain or pleasure! Endless torments dwell about thee: Yet who would live, and live without thee!

And poets, in my view, and I think the view of most people, do speak God’s language – it’s better, it’s finer, it’s language on a higher plane than ordinary people speak in their daily lives.

I’ve been writing poems since I was in the Navy – to Rosalynn. I found I could say things in poems that I never could in prose. Deeper, more personal things. I could write a poem about my mother that I could never tell my mother. Or feelings about being on a submarine that I would have been too embarrassed to share with fellow submariners.

I am growing handsome very fast indeed! I expect I shall be the belle of Amherst when I reach my 17th year. I don’t doubt that I shall have perfect crowds of admirers at that age. Then how I shall delight to make them await my bidding, and with what delight shall I witness their suspense while I make my final decision.

The Mind that lies fallow but a single Day, sprouts up in Follies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous Culture.

Physical elegance, which is what I am talking about here, comes from the body. This is no superficial matter, but rather the way that man found to honour the way he places his two feet on the ground.

He who lives in our mind is near though he may actually be far away; but he who is not in our heart is far though he may really be nearby.

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

A feeble body weakens the mind.

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

The poets are only the interpreters of the gods.

Where the mind goes, the man follows.

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.

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

It is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.

I read poetry to save time.

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.

No race can prosper till it learns that there is as much dignity in tilling a field as in writing a poem.

A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not.

Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.

The mere thought hadn’t even begun to speculate about the merest possibility of crossing my mind.

We all have two lives: an inner life and an outer life. Your inner life is your soul life, which includes your mind, will and emotions. Your outer life is your physical life. And while God cares about every detail of your life, He is more concerned with your inner life than your outer life.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!

I don’t digest things with my mind.