“Is it birthday weather for you, dear soul? Is it fine your way, With tall moon-daisies alight, and the mole Busy, and elegant hares at play By meadow paths where once you would stroll In the flush of day?” — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
“When bullying April bruised mine eyes With sleet-bound appetites and crude Experiments of green, I still was wise And kissed the blossoming rod.” — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go. — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
To travel like a bird, lightly to view | Deserts where stone gods founder in the sand, | Ocean embraced in a white sleep… — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
There's a kind of release And a kind of torment in every goodbye for every man. — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
“The river this November afternoon Rests in an equipoise of sun and cloud: A glooming light, a gleaming darkness shroud Its passage. All seems… — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
“See this abdicated beast, once king Of them all, nibble his claws: Not anger enough left—no, nor despair— To break his teeth on the… — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
The poetic myths are dead; and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead. — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this. — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
A poet is not a public figure. A poet should be read and not seen. — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
It is unwise to equate scientific activity with what we call reason, poetic activity with what we call imagination. Without the imaginative leap from… — Cecil Day-Lewis Copy Share Image
