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Louis MacNeice Quotes

Fanfare for the MakersA cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what?To the small fire that never leaves the...

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Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice

World is suddener than we fancy it.

Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice

I would admit that poetry is something more than mere communication and that if that 'something more...

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Their ghosts are gagged, their books are library flotsam,Some of their names - not all - we learnt i...

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I am not yet born O fill me with strength against those who would freeze my humanity.

September has come, it is hersWhose vitality leaps in the autumn,Whose nature prefersTrees without l...

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Autumn Journal

The Sunlight on the GardenThe sunlight on the gardenHardens and grows cold,We cannot cage the minute...

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Collected Poems 1925-1948

But glad to have sat underThunder and rain with you,And grateful tooFor sunlight on the garden.

Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice

Or because they hope these walls of books will deaden the drumming of the demon in their ears

Poetry of the Thirties

Good poets have written in order to describe something or to preach something - with their eye on th...

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The rules or 'laws' of poetry are only tentative devices, an approximate scheme. There is no Sinaiti...

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The poet is a specialist in something which everyone practises. Herein, poetry differs from the othe...

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For this reason poets and artists developed the doctrine of Art for Art's Sake. The community did no...

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Prayer before BirthI am not yet born; O hear me.Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat...

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Everyone is not able, or inclined, to write poetry in the narrower sense any more than everyone is q...

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Let us thank God for valour in abstractionFor those who go their own way, will not kissThe arse of l...

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Picture of Louis MacNeice

Louis MacNeice

Poet

Born: 1907-09-12

Died: 1963-09-03

Frederick Louis MacNeice (12 September 1907 – 3 September 1963) was a poet and playwright of Northern Irish birth. Though not a dogmatically political writer, he is often associated with his close friends, the left-wing thirties poets: W. H. Auden, Stephen Spender and C. Day Lewis.More