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
What terrible fear causes Man to address the Void as Thou?
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.
Oh, you mean I'm a homosexual! Of course I am, and heterosexual too, but what's that got to do with my headache?
The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.
Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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.
What should I be but just what I am?
You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
Without music I should wish to die.
I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me
Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
You wrote me a beautiful letter, I wonder if you meant it to be as beautiful as it was. I think you did; for somehow I know that your feeling for me, however slight it is, is of the nature of love... When you tell me to come, I will come, by the next train, just as I am. This is not meekness, be assured; I do not come naturally by meekness; know that it is a proud surrender to You.
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.
Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.
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!
I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.
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.
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