I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
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