I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry.

Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

An age which is incapable of poetry is incapable of any kind of literature except the cleverness of a decadence.

to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

The poet does not use poetry, but is at the service of poetry. To use it is to misuse it.

Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his — the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing — he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner... How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air.

Nobody has to tell nobody nothing,” I say, taking another step forward.
“You never were a poet, were you, Todd?” he says.

For a poet is an airy thing, winged and holy, and he is not able to make poetry until he becomes inspired and goes out of his mind and his intellect is no longer in him.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.

He says his aim is poetry. One does not aim at poetry with pistols. At poets, perhaps.

"A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffrings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. People corwd around the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.

For the poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles.