Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

The groves were God's first temples.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

Here the free spirit of mankind at length Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giants unchained strength Or curb his swiftness in the forward race

Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

I hear the howl of the wind that brings the long drear storm on its heavy wings.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.

The principal rule of art is to please and to move. All the other rules were created to achieve this first one.

I grew up with art from the innocent age of ten - with art, but with no sense of identity.

One does not devote one's life in art to shock an audience.

The other great development has been in photography, but that too was influenced by Conceptual art.

My art became very public.

Riding a race bike is an art - a thing that you do because you feel something inside.

The idea is, if I can't heal from my art, then how can you heal?

But in the finished art of the song the use of words has no connection with the use of words in poetry.

One does not need buildings, money, power, or status to practice the Art of Peace. Heaven is right where you are standing, and that is the place to train.

I don't believe in art. I believe in artists.

Art cannot be modern. Art is primordially eternal.

Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable.

We have often been attracted to the story of the other, the outcast. And he and I just loved working together, so it just kept happening, and our relationship is completely bound up with our work. We enjoy each other's art.

Where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art.

It is veneer, rouge, aestheticism, art museums, new theaters, etc. that make America impotent. The good things are football, kindness, and jazz bands.

At the University of Maryland, my first year I started off planning to major in art because I was interested in theatre design, stage design or television design.

Art is an expression of who you are. Parts that I play are my sculptures.