Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
The house ghost is usually a harmless and well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good luck to those who live with it.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. . . .
Man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality.
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.
We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.
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.
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.
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.
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.
He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all
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.
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.
Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.
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.
... What matter, so there is but fire In you, in me?
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.
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.
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