Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash
Let every man be occupied, and occupied in the highest employment of which his nature is capable, and die with the consciousness that he has done his best.
What power has love but forgiveness In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise
Practical to the end, it is the poem of his existence that triumphed finally;...
If they give you lined paper, write the other way.
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
What power has love but forgiveness?
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.
It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.
You slapped my face<br/>Oh but so gently I smiled<br/>At the caress.
There is something<br/>something urgent<br/>I have to say to you<br/>and you alone<br/>but it must wait<br/>while I drink in<br/>the joy of your approach,<br/>perhaps for the last time.
It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.
It was the love of love,<br/>the love that swallows up all else,<br/>a grateful love,<br/>a love of nature, of people,<br/>of animals,<br/>a love engendering<br/>gentleness and goodness<br/>that moved me<br/>and that I saw in you.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Thus having prepared their buds<br/>against a sure winter<br/>the wise trees<br/>stand sleeping in the cold.
I have discovered that most of<br/>the beauties of travel are due to<br/>the strange hours we keep to see them. . . .
It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
What power has love but forgiveness?In other wordsby its interventionwhat has been donecan be undone.What good is it otherwise?
You lethargic, waiting upon me,waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.
Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.
If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
For the beginning is assuredlythe end- since we know nothing, pureand simple, beyondour own complexities.
I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold
The pure products of Americago crazy...... No one to witnessand adjust, no one to drive the car
I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It's words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.