99+ Theodore Roethke Quotes on Life, Awareness and Death - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Theodore Roethke quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our Theodore Roethke quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Theodore Roethke wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like Life, Awareness and Death

O my poor words, bear with me.

Who sighs from far away?

Oh, to be something else, yet still to be!

She loved the wind because the wind loved me.

It’s your privilege to find me incomprehensible. I gave you my minutes; let them remain ours. I hope I haunt you.

In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.

Civilization is over-rated, but there isn’t much else.

Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.

And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.

A too explicit elucidation in education destroys much of the pleasure of learning. There should be room for sly hinters, masters of suggestion.

I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.

To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward...

I can’t go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They’re not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

How terrible the need for God.

The soul has many motions, body one.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.

The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.

Wake the happy words.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

I bleed my bones, their marrow to bestowUpon that God who knows what I would know.

What’s freedom for? To know eternity.

The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.

All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.

Live in a perpetual great astonishment.

Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

What’s important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

God bless the roots! Body and soul are one.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

But when I breath with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessings, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire.

In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

You must believe: a poem is a holy thing – a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

The light comes brighter from the east; the cawOf restive crows is sharper on the ear.

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I’m almost ready to begin something really new?

A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

I came to love, I came into my own.

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