quotes from classic

The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.

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The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.

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That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.

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Only solitary men know the full joys of frienship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.

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Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

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What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

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Where there is great love, there are always wishes.

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There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.

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I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.

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He who has an opinion of his own, but depends on the opinion and tastes of others is a slave.

more quotes from Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock

Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girls Married impossible men?...

more quotes from Robert Graves

Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.

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Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science.

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There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money either.

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Like man and wife who nightly keep Inconsequent debate in sleep As they dream side by side.

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Has God's supply of tolerable husbands Fallen, in fact, so low?...

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Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.

more quotes from Thomas Gray

"'Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race.

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Yet ah why should they know their fateSince sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies.Thought would destroy their paradise.No more where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.

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Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,...

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