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Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.

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
Hands
Divide
Work
Leather
Irish
Divides
Weather
Silvered
Skin
Tightness
Skins
Flax
Water
Bleached

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Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral he could handle any missile.
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The mind is an enchanting thing is an enchanted thing, like the glaze on a katydid-wing subdivided by sun till the nettings are legion.
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... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
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As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.
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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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Honesty - however dangerous - should be as valuable as radium it seems to me.
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Poetry, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.
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Omissions are not accidents.
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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.
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Everything I have written is the result of reading or of interest in people.
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Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.
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Camels are snobbish and sheep, unintelligent water buffaloes, neurasthenic-- even murderous. Reindeer seem over-serious.
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The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.
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You're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief.
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Below the incandescent stars / below the incandescent fruit, / the strange experience of beauty / its existence is too much / it tears one to pieces / and each fresh wave of consciousness / is poison.
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One writes because one has a burning desire to objectify what it is indispensable to one's happiness to express.
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The power of the visible is the invisible.
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What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
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Writing is an undertaking for the modest.
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The hands are the heart's messengers.
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