Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.
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!
There isn't a train I wouldn't take, no matter where it's going.
Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.
Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind.
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line.
Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I'll make you little jackets; I'll make you little trousers From his old pants. There'll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why.
Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.
A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
Life must go on, Though good men die.
I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge.
I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,-- Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.
But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!
I will come back to you, I swear I will; And you will know me still. I shall be only a little taller Than when I went.
I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain-- Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start.
Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.
I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
On and on eternally Shall your altered fluid run, Bud and bloom and go to seed; But your singing days are done
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.
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