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"Lastly, his tomb shall list and founder in the troughs of grass. And none shall speak his name."
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"I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me."
"And here, in thought, to thee-In thought that can alone, Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne, By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven."
"Justice is not Healing. Healing cometh only by suffering and patience, and maketh no demand, not even for Justice. Justice worketh only within the bonds of things as they are... and therefore though Justice is itself good and desireth no further evil, it can but perpetuate the evil that was, and doth not prevent it from the bearing of fruit in sorrow."
"Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs."
"My second thoughts condemnAnd wonder how I dareTo look you in the eye.What right have I to swearEven at one a.m.To love you till I die?Earth meets too many crimesFor fibs to interest her;If I can give my word,Forgiveness can recurAny number of timesIn Time. Which is absurd.Tempus fugit. Quite.So finish up your drink.All flesh is grass. It is. But who on earth can thinkWith heavy heart or lightOf what will come of this?"
"Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people."
"That men, who might have tower'd in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of timeAll chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium."
Explore more quotes by Karl Shapiro
"Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique."
"To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other."
"Lastly, his tomb shall list and founder in the troughs of grass. And none shall speak his name."
"The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?"
"Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die."
"But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep."
"The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race."
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