Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cucc. Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wude nu, Sing cuccu!
The Garden En robe de parade. - Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.
Gloom and solemnity are entirely out of place in even the most rigorous study of an art originally intended to make glad the heart of man.
'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, bid the world's hounds come to horn!
Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.
Yet the companions of the Muses will keep their collective nose in my books And weary with historical data, they will turn to my dance tune.
And in the mean time my songs will travel, And the devirginated young ladies will enjoy them when they have got over the strangeness
I ask a wreathwhich will not crush my head. And there is no hurry about it; I shall have, doubtless, a boom after my funeral, Seeing that long standing increases all things regardless of quality.
Quiet this metal! Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their aqueous bodies with fire. Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate. Let them draw together the bones of the metal.
Song in the Manner of Housman" O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera.
I could I trust starve like a gentleman. It's listed as part of the poetic training, you know.
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
You have been second always. Tragical? No. You preferred it to the usual thing: One dull man, dulling and uxorious, One average mind- with one thought less, each year.
Technique is the test of sincerity. If a thing isn't worth getting the technique to say, it is of inferior value.
The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace.
I dunno what my 23 infantile years in America signify. I left as soon as motion was autarchic -- I mean my motion.
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