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.
So face with calm that heritage
And earn contempt before the age.
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand
Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus:
For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.
But we shall not know the world by looking at it; we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
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.
So the dubbed conceit
Played nursery of cheat
To clear the I of sleet.
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.
I thought I heard the dark pounding its head
On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
Struck in the wet mire
Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city
I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.
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.
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.
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!
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.
If not in a place, where are the People weeping?
They creep weeping in the face, not place.
Is it something with which we may cope
The weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?
I say that what one loves is best:
The midnight fastness of the heart.
Men cannot live forever
But they must die forever.
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