August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.
Encased in talent like a uniform, The rank of every poet is well known; They can amaze us like a thunderstorm, Or die so young, or live for years alone.
When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won.
One rational voice is dumb: over a grave The household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved. Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.
You will be a poet because you will always be humiliated.
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.
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.
Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers
Alone, alone, about the dreadful wood / Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind, / Dreading to find its Father.
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.
Had Greek civilization never existed ... we would never have become fully conscious.
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.
Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead.
Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral
We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes i do not like my work On a pink official form.
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.
Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
But he would have us most of all remember to be enthusiastic over the night. Not only for the sense of wonder it alone has to offer but also because it needs our love. For with sad eyes its delectable creatures look up and beg us dumbly to ask them to follow. They are exiles who long for a future that lies in our power.
The surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it.
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.
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