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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Czeslaw Milosz
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Czeslaw Milosz
Age: 93 †
Born: 1911
Born: June 30
Died: 2004
Died: August 14
Diplomat
Essayist
Pedagogue
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Clarksburg
West Virginia
Miłosz
Czelaw Milosz
World
Mends
Glimmering
Clover
Clovers
Fisherman
Bees
Circles
Ends
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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It was only toward the middle of the twentieth century that the inhabitants of many European countries came, in general unpleasantly, to the realization that their fate could be influenced directly by intricate and abstruse books of philosophy.
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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Language is the only homeland.
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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.
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For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.
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I have no wisdom, no skills, and no faith but I received strength, it tears the world apart. I shall break, a heavy wave, against its shores and a young wave will cover my trace.
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A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
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I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.
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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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