I make no apology for writing in nature's age-old and unaging language, of whose images we build our paradises, Broceliande and Brindavan, the Forest of Arden, Xanadu, Shelley's Skies, or even Wordsworth's Grasemere, which can be found on no map. — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
As a child I became a confirmed believer in the ancient gods simply because as between the reality of fact and the reality f… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Of all the arts the living of a life is perhaps the greatest; to live every moment of life with the same imaginative commitment… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Sensing us, the trees tremble in their sleep, The living leaves recoil before our fires, Baring to us war-charred and broken branches, And seeing… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Chemistry dissolves the goddess in the alembic, Venus, the white queen, the universal matrix, Down to the molecular hexagons and carbon-chains. — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
I couldn't claim that I have never felt the urge to explore evil, but when you descend into hell you have to be very… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Intent on one great love, perfect, Requited and for ever, I missed love's everywhere Small presence, thousand-guised. — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
The air is full of a farewell- deserted by the silver lake lies the wild world, overturned. Cities rise where the mountains fell, the… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
“Within the ring there lies an O, Within the O there looks an eye, In the eye there swims a sea, And in the… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance- they bear the weight of sky and cloud upon the fountain of… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
“The icon is transparent as a representation of the special reality it depicts; an idol replaces and obscures that reality ... but the difference… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Strangers have crossed the sound, but not the sound of the dark oarsmen Or the golden-haired sons of kings, Strangers whose thought is not… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
Poetry is not an end in itself but in the service of life; of what use are poems, or any other works of art,… — Kathleen Raine Copy Share Image
