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They fought the enemy, we fight fat living and self-pity. Shine, o shine, unfalsifying sun, on this sick scene.
Marianne Moore
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Marianne Moore
Age: 84 †
Born: 1887
Born: November 15
Died: 1972
Died: February 5
Essayist
Poet
Translator
Writer
Kirkwood
Missouri
Marianne Moore
Marianne Craig Moore
Enemy
Fought
Fighting
Fats
Living
Pity
Self
Shining
Sun
Sick
Scene
Fight
Shine
More quotes by Marianne Moore
Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.
Marianne Moore
Camels are snobbish and sheep, unintelligent water buffaloes, neurasthenic-- even murderous. Reindeer seem over-serious.
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Men are monopolists of stars, garters, buttons and other shining baubles- unfit to be the guardians of another person's happiness.
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The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy? I wish I could believe it I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
Marianne Moore
The hands are the heart's messengers.
Marianne Moore
Which of us has not been stunned by the beauty of an animal's skin or its flexibility in motion?
Marianne Moore
The heart that gives, gathers.
Marianne Moore
Psychology, which explains everything, Explains nothing, And we are still in doubt.
Marianne Moore
The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.
Marianne Moore
Maine should be pleased that its animal is not a waverer, and rather than fight, lets the primed quill fall. Shallow oppressor, intruder, insister, you have found a resister.
Marianne Moore
Dürer would have seen a reason for living in a town like this.
Marianne Moore
You are not male nor female, but a plan deep-set within the heart of man.
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Conscious writing can be the death of poetry.
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Of the crow-blue mussel shells, one keeps adjusting the ash heaps opening and shutting itself like an injured fan.
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Excess is the common substitute for energy.
Marianne Moore
When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
Marianne Moore
What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
Marianne Moore
The mind is an enchanting thing.
Marianne Moore
[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple it is a privilege to see so much confusion.
Marianne Moore
Poetry is a peerless proficiency of the imagination.
Marianne Moore
