To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.
A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.
Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.
I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of that tradition, and we all know how thin, how lacking in charm, the copies of Keats have become.
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight.
In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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