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 formed to the cadence of waves, Rhythm of the sickle, oar and milking pail — 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
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
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
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
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
Intent on one great love, perfect, Requited and for ever, I missed love's everywhere Small presence, thousand-guised. — Kathleen Raine Copy Share
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
“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
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
“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
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
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
