Poet Quotes

Follow love and it will flee, flee love and it will follow thee.

You do not become a critic until it has been completely established to your own satisfaction that you cannot be a poet.

Yes, the work comes out more beautiful from a material that resists the process, verse, marble, onyx, or enamel.

What I write is not for little girls.

The word poet literally means maker: anything which is not well made doesn't exist.

The cat is a dilettante in fur.

Sooner barbarity than boredom.

If you are worthy of its affection, a cat will be your friend but never your slave.

I am one of those for whom superfluity is a necessity.

I am a man for whom the outside world exists.

Critical lice are like body lice, which desert corpses to seek the living.

Books follow morals, and not morals books.

Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.

A cat will be your friend, but never your slave.

I was born to travel and write verse.

Chance is the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign.

Any man who does not have his inner world to translate is not an artist.

Eyes so transparent that through them the soul is seen.

It is difficult to obtain the friendship of a cat. It is a philosophical animal... one that does not place its affections thoughtlessly.

To love is to admire with the heart; to admire is to love with the mind.

One can tell or do whatever one wants when one is in the Opposition but once one is running a state, one cannot do that.

In Bengal, Hindus are known to crack jokes at the expense of their gods and goddesses and that's what I did.

I have done no wrong but the zealots are trying to attack me because I am so critical of them.

Wild oats will get sown some time, and one of the arts of life is to sow them at the right time.

We have, of course, long since ceased to think of Nature as the sympathetic mirror of our moods, or to imagine that she has any concern with the temporal affairs of man.

We are all treading the vanishing road of a song in the air, the vanishing road of the spring flowers and the winter snows, the vanishing roads of the winds and the streams, the vanishing road of beloved faces.

We also maintain - again with perfect truth - that mystery is more than half of beauty, the element of strangeness that stirs the senses through the imagination.

Though actually the work of man's hands - or, more properly speaking, the work of his travelling feet, - roads have long since come to seem so much a part of Nature that we have grown to think of them as a feature of the landscape no less natural than rocks and trees.

The spiritual element, the really important part of religion, has no concern with Time and Space, temporary mundane laws, or conduct.

The beauty we love is very silent. It smiles softly to itself, but never speaks.