I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.
It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.
Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.
Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
We must not make a false faith by hiding from our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make to God, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.
In dreams begin responsibilitiy.
I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
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