A bird half wakened in the lunar noon Sang halfway through its little inborn tune.
Summoning artists to participate In the august occasions of the state Seems something artists ought to celebrate. Today is for my cause a day of days.
Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.
People are inexterminable - like flies and bed-bugs. There will always be some that survive in cracks and crevices - that's us.
I only hope that when I am free, as they are free to go in quest, of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life, it may not seem better to me to rest.
Democracy is the best chance for the best people.
Belief is better than anything else, and it is best when rapt - above paying its respects to anybody's doubt whatsoever.
Humour is the most engaging cowardice. With it myself I have been able to hold some of my enemy in play far out of gunshot.
Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.
When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
States strong enough to do good are but few. Their number would seem limited to three.
Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes Is the deed ever truly done For Heaven and the future's sakes
Evolution is like walking on a rolling barrel. The walker isn't so much interested in where the barrel is going as he is in keeping on top of it.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
As for his evil tidings, Belshazzar's overthrow, Why hurry to tell Belshazzar What soon enough he would know?
I cut my own hair. I got sick of barbers because they talk too much. And too much of their talk was about my hair coming out.
Of course there is matter for remark in poems. Nobody denies that. But it must be solemnly laid on everybody in this world to make his own observations and remarks. That's what we mean by thinking, and that's about all we mean. A teacher says to a pupil "Watch me notice a few things in the next few months: let's see you notice a few things too."
There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--- The white one in his tail: like one who takes everything said as personal to himself.
I believe in teaching, but I don’t believe in going to school.
I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have out walked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet. When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly light, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.
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