William Collins Quotes (35 Quotes)

Then there were the wits,using their last breath to exhale a line,a devastating capper, as if the worldwere simply a large gallery buzzing with people,and now it was time to throw on a long scarfand make an exit, leavingit to someone else to close the doo

And with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree,the day hooded by low clouds.

This is our nation's capital. To have Major League Baseball return to our nation's capital has a special significance, ... There's the opportunity to own something that has been a part of the tradition and legacy of the city and the surrounding area, and now can become part of the fabric of our community.

I would rather see words out on their own, awayfrom their families and the warehouse of Rogetwandering the world where they sometimes fallin love with a completely different word.

When words are put together in fresh ways there is a pleasure-giving quality in language, which brings a release of endorphins.

But all they want to do; Is tie the poem to a chair with rope; And torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose; To find out what it really means.

I'm not dismayed that poetry's appeal is limited in scope. That's why we have National Poetry Month. It's a sign of its neglect, which isn't necessarily a negative thing. It's not like we have National TV Month.

Poetry is my cheap means of transportation. By the end of the poem the reader should be in a different place from where he started. I would like him to be slightly disoriented at the end, like I drove him outside of town at night and dropped him off in a cornfield.

I think my work has to do with a sense that we are attempting, all the time, to create a logical, rational path through the day. To the left and right there are an amazing set of distractions that we usually can't afford to follow. But the poet is willing to stop anywhere. . . . And it's that willingness to slow down and examine the mysterious bits of fluff in our lives that is the poet's interest.

I think humor is a very serious thing. I use it as a way of weakening the reader's defenses so that I can more easily take him to something more.

Each one is a gift, no doubt,mysteriously placed in your waking handor set upon your foreheadmoments before you open your eyes.

In a while, one of us will go up to bedand the other one will follow.Then we will slip below the surface of the nightinto miles of water, drifting down and downto the dark, soundless bottomuntil the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest!

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

Words like feminism or democracy scare me. They are words with barnacles on them, and you can't see what's underneath.

Between the dark lakes where the dark rivers flowthere is no ferry waiting on the shore of rockand no man holding a long oar,ready to take your last coin.This is the real earth and the real water it contains.

The sunlight flashes off your windshield,and when I look up into the small, posted mirror,I watch you diminish--my echo, my twin--and vanish around a curve in this whipof a road we can't help traveling together.

Not to say that authors are all such sourpusses, but you meet the author in the best possible way, on the written page. I am at my best there, more patient, more thoughtful.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear.

In unsettled times like these, when world cultures, countries and religions are facing off in violent confrontations, we could benefit from the reminder that storytelling is common to all civilizations. Whether in the form of a sprawling epic or a pointed ballad, the story is our most ancient method of making sense out of experience and of preserving the past.

Always mistrust a subordinate who never finds fault with his superior.

When a writer becomes a reader of his or her own work, a lot can go wrong. It's like do-it-yourself dentistry.

Here's to the wind blowing against this lighted houseand to the vast, windless spaces between the stars.

Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.

I would go into the kitchen for coffeeand on the way back to the page,curled in its roller,I would light one up and feelits dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Poetry is the history of the human heart, and it continues to record the history of human emotion, whether it's celebration or grief or whatever it may be.

But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my windowin one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.

It seems only yesterday I used to believethere was nothing under my skin but light.If you cut me, I would shine.But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,I skin my knees. I bleed.

O Music sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid

There are many that I miss,having sent my last one out a car windowsparking along the road one night, years ago.

Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don't call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.

T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.