Life is the game that must be played.
Two kinds of gratitude: The sudden kind we feel for what we take; the larger kind we feel for what we give.
And thus we all are nighing The truth we fear to know: Death will end our crying For friends that come and go.
Your Dollar is your only Word, / The wrath of it your only fear. / You build it altars tall enough / To make you see, but your are blind; / You cannot leave it long enough / To look before you or behind.
I shall have more to say when I am dead.
For when a woman is left too much alone, sooner or later she begins to think; and no man knows what then she may discover.
Pity is like a knife, sometimes, and it may pierce one who employs it more shrewdly than the victim it would save.
I cannot find my way: there is no star
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere
Language that tells us, through a more or less emotional reaction,
something that can not be said.
Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong!
Tell me, O Lord--tell me, O Lord, how long
Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!
I have been reading the Old Testament, a most bloodthirsty and perilous book for the young. Jehovah is beyond doubt the worst character in fiction.
seizing the swift logic of a woman,
Curse God and die.
Do you hear the children singing?
I am living on hope and faith ... a pretty good diet when the mind will receive them.
I don't say what God is, but a name That somehow answers us when we are driven To feel and think how little we have to do With what we are.
Were it not for love, Poor life would be a ship not worth launching.
Love must have wings to fly away from love, And to fly back again.
I mean you last as long as lies.
Youth sees too far to see how near it is To seeing farther.
I wonder more and more just where I may have come out if I had never seen Harvard Square.
Where's the need of singing now?
And we who delve in beauty's lore
Know all that we have known before
Of what inexorable cause
Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.
Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time,
Tiering the same dull webs of discontent,
Clipping the same sad alnage of the years.
To some will come a time when change itself is beauty, if not heaven.
Are we no greater than the noise we make Along one blind atomic pilgrimage Whereon by crass chance billeted we go Because our brains and bones and cartilage Will have it so?
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