Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow . . . Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.
I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
The only people I really hate are servants. They're not really human beings at all.
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
Life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink.
So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, "One thing there's no getting by -- I've been a wicked girl," said I; But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!
I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Night falls fast. Today is in the past. Blown from the dark hill hither to my door Three flakes, then four Arrive, then many more.
Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.
Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.
Evil alone has oil for every wheel.
let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air.
That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most
One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !
... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
[on going to Sunday school:] It looks like rain, and I hope it will rain cats and dogs and hammers and pitchforks and silver sugar spoons and hay ricks and paper-covered novels and picture frames and rag carpets and toothpicks and skating rinks and birds of paradise and roof gardens and burdocks and French grammars before Sunday school time.
Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness--presently Every bed is narrow.
Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo; and the happier he
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