Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
The desire that is satisfied is not a great desire, nor has the shoulder used all its might that an unbreakable gate has never strained.
He only can create the greatest imaginable beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer.
Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney Folk dance like a wave on the sea.
Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.
Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.
And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.
I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.
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