Prose and Poetry

Prose:
I just spent the last short while listening to a storm rage outside my patio doors. They were open of course. The lights were off, and the only record player that I own was playing music not very softly at all. I had a bit of Tchaikovsky on. He's my favorite choice to play when the civility of the thunder storm has come, and the chaos of the world is momentarily left behind. I put my record player on battery tonight. Just in case the power and thus the clocks went out. It did not, and so they kept their time. But, it was a good time for prayer as the sky flashed brightly amidst the fanfare of horns, and, between the words I would utter before the Lord, my arms would rise up and come down in tempo with the strings and timpani as they expelled their souls into the darkened room.

Poetry:
Oh, how I sit in angst
wondering things I should not think
Eying the thunder clouds with pride
and praying for the storm

to churn up mud with icy pellets
and coat the storm drains with melted zealots
intent on obtaining such a mass
as to bury the trees with the grass

Oh, how I sit in angst
wondering things I should not think
of the souls buried in my past
and questioning what I know to last

because, if trust is an act of love,
it's no wonder I hate so much.
For I place my trust in foolish things
that offer me no hope.

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past -
Oh, never call it loving!

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning - A Woman's Shortcomings, st. 5 (1850)

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And,–glancing on my own thin, veined wrist,–
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Bk. VII, l. 812-826

"The poet is in the end probably more afraid of the dogmatist who wants to extract the message from the poem and throw the poem away than he is of the sentimentalist who says, "Oh, just let me enjoy the poem."

~ Robert Penn Warren

"Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own."

~ Salvatore Quasimodo

"Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words."

~ Edgar Allan Poe

* I wanted to back up thes quotes on poetry with quotes on prose. However, even though the majority of the world's literature is written in prose, I couldn't really find any quotes on it...