When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.
You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?
He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.
Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till the stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed.
All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye.
We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.
There is only one romance the Soul's.
My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground. Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.
I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.
I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?
And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O Never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.
Our words must seem to be inevitable.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
The desire that is satisfied is not a great desire, nor has the shoulder used all its might that an unbreakable gate has never strained.
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