A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.
The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end
Hungry Hatred, will not strive against intelligence self-interest.
It is a test (a positive test, I do not assert that it is always valid negatively), that genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
That is the worst moment, when you feel you have lost / The desires for all that was most desirable, / Before you are contented with what you can desire; / Before you know what is left to be desired; / And you go on wishing that you could desire / What desire has left behind.
To approach the stranger is to invite the unexpected, release a new force, let the genie out of the bottle. It is to start a new train of events that is beyond your control.
To justify Christian morality because it provides a foundation of morality, instead of showing the necessity of Christian morality from the truth of Christianity, is a very dangerous inversion.
The Church must be forever building, for it is forever decaying within and attacked from without.
The overwhelming pressure of mediocrity, sluggish and indomitable as a glacier, will mitigate the most violent, and depress the most exalted revolution.
And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.
This is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.
Religion, as distinguished from modern paganism, implies a life in conformity with nature. It may be observed that the natural life and the supernatural life have a conformity to each other which neither has with the mechanistic life...A wrong attitude towards nature implies, somewhere, a wrong attitude towards God...[We should] struggle to recover the sense of relation to nature and to God.
Genuine blasphemy, genuine in spirit and not purely verbal, is the product of partial belief, and is as impossible to the complete atheist as to the perfect Christian.
...the still point in a turning world.
This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.
A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.
Not only every great poet, but every genuine, but lesser poet, fulfils once for all some possibility of language, and so leaves one possibility less for his successors.
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
We see the light but see not whence it comes. O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!
But what have I, but what have I, my friend, To give you, what can you receive from me? Only the friendship and the sympathy Of one about to reach her journey's end.
Today, you're halfway to 100! Here's to optimism, whether it is realistic or not. Happy 50th birthday!
Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place.
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - And this, and so much more? -
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.
That was my way of putting it-not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.
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