Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. — W. B. Yeats
This is June, the month of grass and leaves … already the aspens are trembling again, and a new summer is offered me. — Henry David Thoreau, from “June 6, 1857,” Summer: From the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau, Volume 6. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, May 26, 2006)
Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few. ― Percy Bysshe Shelley, from The Masque of Anarchy: Written on Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester. (1819)
To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say, and to finish without knowing what you have written. ― Jean-Jacques Rousseau
I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on… Continue reading Percy Bysshe Shelley
What if you slept? And what if, In your sleep You dreamed? And what if, In your dream, You went to Heaven And there plucked A strange and Beautiful flower? And what if, When you awoke, You had the flower In your hand? Ah… what then? — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “A Strange and Beautiful Flower,”… Continue reading Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night! ― Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.