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Poetic Quotes

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Poetic Quotes

“{Letter from Fawcett to the great Robert Ingersoll, 1894} I do so wish, that, in all these big questions, literary men would take you more for a guide than they do, or seem to do. You have, of course, an immense constituency; but your love of letters and your deeply poetic spirit render you worthy of a far greater reverence and respect from writers than it seems to me that you receive. I want the brilliancy of your thought to penetrate our literature profoundly and permanently. But of course that will come. The younger generation of writers cannot escape you any more than the air they breath. You will, indeed, be the air they breath, -- and hence, in many cases, if not all, their inspiration. Especially should the poets love you and sit at your feet. If you die before you see the change, I believe that those who now love you and survive you will see how much of the mere pietistic rubbish in modern poetry has been gradually yet surely swept away by the mighty besom of your fearless and noble intellect.”

LoveInspirationPoetryHonorRespectLettersPraiseIntellectFearlessPoeticAdmirationLiteraryIngersollRobert G IngersollRobert IngersollRobert Green IngersollMightyBrilliancy
Author:Edgar Fawcett
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“Medicinal Spirit, Inside Mirror Therapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels, No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails, Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator, Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author, Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation, Not its pardon, A mirror is but a substance of a conscious, But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.”

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Book:Awakening Kings and Princes Volume I
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“I sincerely believe that only those who are financially free can produce great works of art. Poor artists are too bothered about money and fame, which hampers their creativity. An artist shouldn’t have any financial pressure. One can’t create something poetic if commercial success is all one is concerned about.”

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Book:The Influencer: Speed Must Have a Limit
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“The holy one reveals,​ The demon child conceals. By the twins, the soul temple’s key be obtained To unlock the way to the land untamed. Goddess of dark and soulless night, Open the gate as Lunella loses sight. Life of the loved one, key to the dark, Eternal darkness, universal war. Loved one’s life for the gate to Sheol. Complete the cycle for the savior of old.​”

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Book:The Door to Inferna
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“His stories were not always new, but there was in the telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once; whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what he had to say; and when when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling.”

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Book:The Belgariad, Vol. 1: Pawn of Prophecy / Queen of Sorcery / Magician's Gambit
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“See that vine?" I said to Tobble. "My siblings and I used to swing out from it, then land in the lake." I gave a small laugh. "Well, they did anyway. I was too afraid." "You? Afraid?" "Always and forever," I said. "I'm beginning to think that's how life works." "Are we stopping here?" Tobble asked. "The horses are well watered." "Yes, but I'm not. Do you know what I need, Tobble? I need a swim." I checked the icy water with a long stick to be sure it was as deep as I recalled. Two silver fish darted past. As I clambered to a low-hanging branch, I felt a familiar shiver of anticipation and dread, and for a moment, I was the old Byx, with all her hopes and fears and longings. Then I kicked off as hard as I could, swung far out over the pond, and let go.”

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Book:The Only
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“Cosí una dolce malinconia ti prende, la melanconia dell'autunno, e sotto un larice, all'asciutto, cerchi anche tu un luogo dove asciugarti per meditare sulle stagioni della vita e sull'esistenza che corre via con i ricordi che diventano preghiera di ringraziamento per la vita che hai avuto e per i doni che la natura ti elargisce. Una mattina di dicembre vedrai il cielo uniformemente grigio, le montagne dentro le nuvole, i boschi più scuri e, da una catasta di legna, schizzar via lo scricciolo. Il suo campanellino d'argento ti dirà prossima la prima neve.”

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Book:Stagioni
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