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 light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.
Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.
I am haunted by numberless islands, many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.
A sea captain when he stands upon the bridge, or looks out from his deck-house, thinks much about God and about the world. Away in the valley yonder among the corn and the poppies men may well forget all things except the warmth of the sun upon the face, and the kind shadow under the hedge; but he who journeys through storm and darkness must needs think and think.
It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
An intellectual hate is the worst.
The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, His empty heart is full at length But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night That opens her mystery and fright.
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
An intellectual hatred is the worst.
There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
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