I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.
Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.
The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.
Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
All art that is not mere storytelling, or mere portraiture, is symbolic, and has the purpose of those symbolic talismans which medieval magicians made with complex colours and forms, and bade their patients ponder over daily, and guard with holy secrecy; for it entangles, in complex colours and forms, a part of the Divine Essence.
All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other's, We were so much at one.
I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.
Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.
Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world, and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary. You may argue against it but you should no more treat it with disrespect than a perfectly cultivated writer would treat (say) the Catholic Church or the Church of Luther no matter how much he disliked them.
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
All that could run or leap or swim Whether in wood, water or cloud, Acclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming Him.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.
Words alone are certain good.
We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.
Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.
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