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1 " In my craft or sullen artExercised in the still nightWhen only the moon ragesAnd the lovers lie abedWith all their griefs in their arms,I labour by singing lightNot for ambition or breadOr the strut and trade of charmsOn the ivory stagesBut for the common wagesOf their most secret heart.Not for the proud man apartFrom the raging moon I writeOn these spindrift pagesNor for the towering deadWith their nightingales and psalmsBut for the lovers, their armsRound the griefs of the ages,Who pay no praise or wagesNor heed my craft or art. "
― Dylan Thomas
2 " Because at nightwhen others are sleeping, I drown myself in poetry. "
― Kamand Kojouri
3 " The SleepingI have imagined all this:In 1940 my parents were in loveAnd living in the loft on West 10thAbove Mark Rothko who painted cabbage rosesOn their bedroom walls the night they got married.I can guess why he did it.My mother’s hair was the color of yellow applesAnd she wore a velvet hat with her pajamas.I was not born yet. I was remote as starlight.It is hard for me to imagine thatMy parents made love in a roomful of rosesAnd I wasn’t there.But now I am. My mother is blushing.This is the wonderful thing about art.It can bring back the dead. It can wake the sleepingAs it might have late that nightWhen my father and mother made love above RothkoWho lay in the dark thinking Roses, Roses, Roses. "
― Lynn Emanuel ,
4 " I grow weary of the loveThat lasts for a nightWhen it should be thereThe next sunrise "
― Irum Zahra , Psychaotic: See The World In Red And Black
5 " I do not fear the nightWhen I know that todayI am bathed in a lightIt cannot be stolen away "
― Holly Ducarte , Hiding Bones: The Best Poetry of Hiding Skeletons & Literary Bones