Kathleen Raine Quotes

… the poem reminds us of what we ourselves know, but did not know we knew; reminds us, above all, of what we are.

Of all created things the source is one, Simple, single as love; remember The cell and seed of life, the sphere That is, of child, white bird, and small blue dragon-fly Green fern, and the gold four-petalled tormentilla The ultimate memory. Each latent cell puts out a future, Unfolds its differing complexity As a tree puts forth leaves, and spins a fate Fern-traced, bird feathered, or fish-scaled.

As a child I became a confirmed believer in the ancient gods simply because as between the reality of fact and the reality f myth, I chose myth…Myth is the truth of fact, not fact the truth of myth.

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

The air is full of a farewell- deserted by the silver lake lies the wild world, overturned. Cities rise where the mountains fell, the furnace where the phoenix burned

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 careful.

I’ve read all the books but one Only remains sacred: this Volume of wonders, open Always before my eyes.

The work of the artist is to heal the soul.

O never harm the dreaming world, the world of green, the world of leaves, but let its million palms unfold the adoration of the trees It is a love in darkness wrought obedient to the unseen sun, longer than memory, a thought deeper than the graves of time. The turning spindles of the cells weave a slow forest over space, the dance of love, creation, out of time moves not a leaf, and out of summer, not a shade.

Nature is the common, universal language, understood by all.

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.

Academia is a graveyard of poets.