Quotes on Sonnet

Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

The martini: the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.

Each work of art excludes the world, concentrates attention on itself. For the time it is the only thing worth doing -to do just that; be it a sonnet, a statue, a landscape, an outline head of Caesar, or an oration. Presently we return to the sight of another that globes itself into a whole as did the first, for example, a beautiful garden; and nothing seems worth doing in life but laying out a garden.

Creativity is the result of a struggle between vitality and form. As anyone who has tried to write a sonnet or scan poetry, is aware, the form ideally do not take away from the creativity but may add to it.

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

Even if you walk exactly the same route each time - as with a sonnet - the events along the route cannot be imagined to be the same from day to day, as the poet's health, sight, his anticipations, moods, fears, thoughts cannot be the same.

Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. - Mrs. Whatsit

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.

Like a Passover Poet gliding from house to house and from trembling soul to trembling soul the wind scribbled sonnets of first time love and weeping haikus of last hours on earth.

I love thee with the passion put to use_x000D_ _x000D_ In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. _x000D_ _x000D_ I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_x000D_ _x000D_ With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, _x000D_ _x000D_ Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, _x000D_ _x000D_ I shall but love thee better after death.