Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Quote by Maxwell Bodenheim

Topics: Poetry Quotes

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves,...

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves,...

All good poetry is forged slowly and patiently, link by link, with sweat and blood...

All good poetry is forged slowly and patiently, link by link, with sweat and blood...

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains...

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains...

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

If we can discover the meaning in the trilling of a frog, perhaps we may...

If we can discover the meaning in the trilling of a frog, perhaps we may...

Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech

Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech

My arms have mutinied against me brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My...

My arms have mutinied against me brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My...

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive...

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive...

This is not remarkable, for, as we know, reality is not a function of the...

This is not remarkable, for, as we know, reality is not a function of the...

...pleasure, of course, is a slippery word.... Our pleasures ultimately belong to us, not to...

...pleasure, of course, is a slippery word.... Our pleasures ultimately belong to us, not to...

The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact...

The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact...

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

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

For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

When I sound the fairy call, gather here in silent meeiing, Chin to knee on...

When I sound the fairy call, gather here in silent meeiing, Chin to knee on...