Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
Life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse.
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.
The only people I really hate are servants. They're not really human beings at all.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
Progress-progress is the dirtiest word in the language-who ever told us- And made us believe it-that to take a step forward was necessarily, was always A good idea?
let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air.
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.
Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.
Evil alone has oil for every wheel.
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.
Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness--presently Every bed is narrow.
[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.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, House without air, I leave you and lock your door. Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying!
Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo; and the happier he
I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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
Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.
I am not at all in favor of hard work for its own sake; many people who work very hard indeed produce terrible things, and should most certainly not be encouraged.
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
That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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!
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