"don't wait for the man standing in the

Crystal ball and candle light, I want your dance tonight. Show me the power of love as we stand together in the middle of the night.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself

I can't think of a case where poems changed the world, but what they do is they change people's understanding of what's going on in the world.

"the phantom of the man-who-would-understand

"A pine tree standeth lonely

one day, when tenderness has become the single rule of the morning,/ I will wake in your arms. perhaps your skin will be overly gorgeous./ and the light will include the impossible understanding of love.

"We stand now where two roads diverge. But unlike the roads in

Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say 'It is in me, and shall out.' Stand there, balked and dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until at last rage draw out of thee that dream-power which every night shows thee is thine own; a power transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the whole river of electricity.

"O stand, stand at the window

"These Songs are not meant to be understood, you understand.

"I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges

"Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands

Nothing is more natural than mutual misunderstanding; the contrary is always surprising. I believe that one never agrees on anything except by mistake, and that all harmony among human beings is the happy fruit of an error.

Poetry, plays, novels, music, they are the cry of the human spirit trying to understand itself and make sense of our world.

"...if you do not even understand what words say

"If you are a monster, stand up.

Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.

Exercises are like prose, whereas yoga is the poetry of movements. Once you understand the grammar of yoga; you can write your poetry of movements.

A poet is a man who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times.

Poetry, she thought, wasn't written to be analyzed; it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.

When you understand, there's love and silence. When you don't, there's fear and confusion.