The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?
I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing; but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.
Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
Life is the elimination of what is dead.
How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains.
Trees Trees, proud standing people stretching fingertips to the sky, reaching, praying glorious attention, breathing light. strength shelter timeless confidence bending and firm comforting rooted chorus line dancing with the moon, the wind, the clouds framing bursts of stars tender rugged celebration absorbing and releasing life each holy branch holding the power of the Universe. There.
Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
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