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.
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.
we know our end
A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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.
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....
In the cold morning the rested street stands up
To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
There is a calm for you where men and women
Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
So face with calm that heritage
And earn contempt before the age.
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....
Peering, I heard the hooves come down the hill.
The posse passed, twelve horse; the leader's face
Was worn as limestone on an ancient sill.
Death's long anabasis.
My darling boy whom I shall never know,
My son, I love you in my deepest fears....
For often at Church I've seen the stained high glass
Pour out the Virgin and Saints, twist and untwist
The mortal youth of Christ astride an ass.
Ah, Christ, I love you rings to the wild sky
And I must think a little of the past:
When I was ten I told a stinking lie
That got a black boy whipped....
Therefore with idle hands and head I sit
In late December before the fire's daze
Punished by crimes of which I would be quit.
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!
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.
Struck in the wet mire
Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city
I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.
Walk in this faithless grass with studious tread,
Lest mice, weasels, germane beasts, too soon
The tall hat and eyes, the fierce feet, for dead
Descry, and fix you prone in their revelling moon.
Last night I fled until I came
To streets where leaking casements dripped
Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame;
A nervous window bled.
I say that what one loves is best:
The midnight fastness of the heart.
Men cannot live forever
But they must die forever....
Our loss put six feet under ground
Is measured by the magnolia's root;
Our gain's the intellectual sound
Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
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