Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it. — Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it. — Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it. — Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it. — Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it. — Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Download Customize

Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it.

— Helen Vendler, Poems, Poets, Poetry: An Introduction and Anthology
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
poetry poets

More “Poetry” Quotes

Why does a heart wear its eyesinto helllike slivers of false sunshine — Fanny Howe
I will try to disappoint youbetter than anyone else has. — Stephen Dunn, Different Hours
And in the end,she left a scarand I knew that washow she wanted tobe remembered.She wanted to leaveher mark in theworldw — Robert M. Drake, Black Butterfly
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so d — William Allingham, The Fairies: A Poem
Go then, O my inseperable, this once more, — Donald Justice, Collected Poems
On the shining yards of heavenSee a wider dawn unfurled. . . . The eternal slaves of beautyAre the masters of the world. — Bliss Carman, Songs from Vagabondia
There have been times I've felt so much art in my soul I grew sick of artists. — Criss Jami, Healology
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,That my songs do not show me at all?For they are a fragrance, an — Sara Teasdale, Flame and Shadow
Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs. — W.H. Auden
what if I fall? oh, my darling, but if you fly? — Erin Hanson
The business of love is cruelty which,by our wills, we transform to live together. — William Carlos Williams
I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were — John Keats, The Complete Poems