Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
Without music I should wish to die.
Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning, but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.
Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
What should I be but just what I am?
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now
Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me
Oh, you mean I'm a homosexual! Of course I am, and heterosexual too, but what's that got to do with my headache?
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.
Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.
I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! There are a hundred places where I fear To go,--so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.
I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
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