Men expect too much, do too little.
Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand
Over the hill to greet the singing dawn....
Serious poetry deals with the fundamental conflicts that cannot be logically resolved: we can state the conflicts rationally, but reason does not relieve us of them.
The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
Struck in the wet mire
Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city
I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.
I thought I heard the dark pounding its head
On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
What is the flesh and blood compounded ofBut a few moments in the life of time?This prowling of the cells, litigious love,Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime.
Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection....
In an age of abstract experience, fornication
Is self-expression, adjunct to Christian euphoria,
And whores become delinquents; delinquents, patients;
Patients, wards of society. Whores, by that rule,
Men expect too much, do too little,
Put the contraption before the accomplishment,
Lack skill of the interior mind
To fashion dignity with shapes of air.
Luxury, yes but not elegance!
Antiquity breached mortality with myths.
Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates
A cornice on the Third National Bank.
For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....
Let us begin to understand the argument.
There is a solution to everything: Science.
The poet is he who fights on the passionate
Side and whoever loses he wins; when he
Is defeated it is hard to say who wins....
Now remember courage, go to the door,Open it and see whether coiled on the bedOr cringing by the wall, a savage beastMaybe with golden hair, with deep eyesLike a bearded spider on a sunlit floorWill snarl-and man can never be alone.
The dreary flies, lazy and casual,
Stick to the ceiling, buzz along the wall.
O heart, the spider shuffles from the mould
Weaving, between the pinks and grapes, his pall.
Let us lie down once more by the breathing side
Of Ocean, where our live forefathers sleep
As if the Known Sea still were a month wide--
Atlantis howls but is no longer steep!
What was I saying? An Egyptian king
Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
There is a calm for you where men and women
Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
In the cold morning the rested street stands up
To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
Good manners, Madam, are had these days not
For your asking, nor mine, nor what-we-used-to-be's.
The day is a loud grenade that bursts a smile
Of serious weeds in a comic lily plot....
Swimmer of noonday, lean for the perfect dive
To the dead Mother's face, whose subtile down
You had not seen take amber light alive.
we know our end
A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
The day's at end and there's nowhere to go,
Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying;
Get up and once again politely lying
Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe....
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