Poetry
Quotes - We are the hollow men
“We,
unaccustomed to courage
exiles
from delight
live
coiled in shells of loneliness
until
love leaves its high holy temple
and
comes into our sight
to
liberate us into life.
Love
arrives
and
in its train come ecstasies
old
memories of pleasure
ancient
histories of pain.
Yet
if we are bold,
love
strikes away the chains of fear
from
our souls.
We
are weaned from our timidity
In
the flush of love's light
we
dare be brave
And
suddenly we see
that
love costs all we are
and
will ever be.
Yet
it is only love
which
sets us free.”
―
Maya Angelou
“A
Man Said to the Universe
A
man said to the universe:
“Sir,
I exist!”
“However,”
replied the universe,
“The
fact has not created in me
A
sense of obligation.”
―
Stephen Crane, War Is Kind and Other Poems
“We
are the hollow men
We
are the stuffed men
Leaning
together
Headpiece
filled with straw. Alas!
Our
dried voices, when
We
whisper together
Are
quiet and meaningless
As
wind in dry grass
Or
rats' feet over broken glass
In
our dry cellar
Shape
without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed
force, gesture without motion;
-
The Hollow Men”
―
T.S. Eliot, Poems: 1909-1925
“The
monsters were never
under
my bed.
Because
the monsters
were
inside my head.
I
fear no monsters,
for
no monsters I see.
Because
all this time
the
monster has been me.”
―
Nikita Gill
“Why,
man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like
a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk
under his huge legs, and peep about
To
find ourselves dishonourable graves.”
―
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
“The
words ‘I Love You’ kill, and resurrect millions, in less than a second.”
―
Aberjhani, Elemental: The Power of Illuminated Love
“You
have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link.
This
is but half the truth.
You
are also as strong as your strongest link.
To
measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean
by
the frailty of its foam.
To
judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their
inconstancy.”
―
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
“We
wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended
another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth
sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our
ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are
scattered.”
―
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
“We
ran as if to meet the moon.”
―
Robert Frost
“We
are made of all those who have built and broken us.”
―
Atticus Poetry, Love Her Wild
“There
is no Frigate like a Book
To
take us Lands away
Nor
any Coursers like a Page
Of
prancing Poetry –
This
Traverse may the poorest take
Without
oppress of Toll –
How
frugal is the Chariot
That
bears a Human soul.”
―
Emily Dickinson, Selected Poems
“Caged
Bird
A
free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and
floats downstream till the current ends
and
dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.
But
a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can
seldom see through his bars of rage
his
wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The
caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of
things unknown but longed for still
and
his tune is heard on the distant hill
for
the caged bird sings of freedom.
The
free bird thinks of another breeze
and
the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and
the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But
a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his
shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his
wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The
caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of
things unknown but longed for still
and
his tune is heard on the distant hill
for
the caged bird sings of freedom.”
―
Maya Angelou, The Complete Collected Poems
“You
fit into me
like
a hook into an eye
a
fish hook
an
open eye”
―
Margaret Atwood
“The
Poet With His Face In His Hands
You
want to cry aloud for your
mistakes.
But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t
need anymore of that sound.
So
if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop
yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold
it in, at least go by yourself across
the
forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of
rocks and water to the place where
the
falls are flinging out their white sheets
like
crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation
and water fun and you can
stand
there, under it, and roar all you
want
and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip
with despair all afternoon and still,
on
a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by
the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing
out its spotted breast, will sing
of
the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.”
―
Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2
