But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
To sit beside the board and drink good wine And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire And feel content and wisdom in your heart, This is the best of life; when we are young We long to tread a way none trod before, But find the excellent old way through love And through the care of children to the hour Forbidding Fate and Time and Change goodbye.
In mockery I have set A powerful emblem up, And sing it rhyme upon rhyme In mockery of a time Half dead at the top.
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.
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.
somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
There are a few of the open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors, plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
I--love's skein upon the ground, My body in the tomb-- Shall leap into the light lost In my mother's womb.
The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well; And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.
I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
While on that old grey stone I sat Under the old wind-broken tree, I knew that One is animate, Mankind inanimate phantasy.
Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains; And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills.
So long as all is ordered for attack, and that alone, leaders will instinctively increase the number of enemies that they may give their followers something to do.
A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
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