August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.
Poetry makes nothing happen.
The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own.
You will be a poet because you will always be humiliated.
The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers
All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
Warm are the still and lucky miles, White shores of longing stretch away, A light of recognition fills The whole great day, and bright The tiny world of lovers' arms. Silence invades the breathing wood Where drowsy limbs a treasure keep, Now greenly falls the learned shade Across the sleeping brows And stirs their secret to a smile. Restored! Returned! The lost are borne On seas of shipwreck home at last: See! In a fire of praising burns The dry dumb past, and we Our life-day long shall part no more.
Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead.
Had Greek civilization never existed ... we would never have become fully conscious.
Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes i do not like my work On a pink official form.
We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral
To me Art's subject is the human clay, / And landscape but a background to a torso; / All Cezanne's apples I would give away / For one small Goya or a Daumier.
Alone, alone, about the dreadful wood / Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind, / Dreading to find its Father.
The stars are dead. The animals will not look: We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.
Long ago the accusations had begun, And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged
If time were the wicked sheriff in a horse opera, I'd pay for riding lessons and take his gun away.
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.
For time is inches And the heart's changes, Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted.
the child unlucky in his little State, Some hearth where freedom is excluded, A hive whose honey is fear and worry, Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape
Composing mortals with immortal fire.
In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or today.
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