If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.
There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.
A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
Youth is stranger than fiction.
Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish
Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.
I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
I thought when love for you died, I should die. It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires. And laughter, and inn-fires.
One may not doubt that, somehow Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And sure, the reverent eye must see A purpose in Liquidity.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, Secretly armed against all death's endeavour; Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall; And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear, For how unpleasant, if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see A Purpose in Liquidity.
All the little emptiness of love!
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