I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.
It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.
look for a lovely thing and you will find it, it is not far, it never will be far
Only by love is life made real.
When I can look life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise, life will have given me the truth, and taken in exchange - my youth.
I shall gather myself into my self again, I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
What we have never had, remains; It is the things we have that go.
Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up, Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.
I am not yours, nor lost in you, not lost, although I long to be. Lost as a candle lit at noon, lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still a spirit beautiful and bright, yet I am I, who long to be lost as a light is lost in light.
My soul is a broken field, plowed by pain.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pool singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Into my heart's treasury I slipped a coin That Time cannot take Nor a thief purloin- O better than the minting Of a gold-crowned king Is the safe-kept memory Of a lovely thing.
No one worth possessing can be quite possessed.
I found more joy in sorrow than you could find in joy.
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
My soul is a dark ploughed field In the cold rain; My soul is a broken field Ploughed by pain.
One by one, like leaves from a tree, / All my faiths have forsaken me.
Wisdom is not acquired save as the result of investigation.
Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break.
Can I ever know you / Or you know me?
My theory is that poems are written because of a state of emotional irritation. It may be present for some time before the poet is conscious of what is tormenting him. The emotional irritation springs, probably, from subconscious combinations of partly forgotten thoughts and feelings. Coming together, like electrical currents in a thunder storm, they produce a poem. ... the poem is written to free the poet from an emotional burden.
Life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass.
My heart is a garden tired with autumn.
The ache of empty arms was an old tale to you.
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