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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
There's keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
An intellectual hatred is the worst.
What do we know but that we face one another in this place?
The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
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.
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.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief.
I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.
I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood; And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes.
Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.
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