I am not at all in favor of hard work for its own sake; many people who work very hard indeed produce terrible things, and should most certainly not be encouraged.
That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, House without air, I leave you and lock your door. Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying!
Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom golden in the green grass, this life can be.
Man has never been the same since God died.
Death devours all lovely things.
But if I can’t be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!
There isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, no matter where it’s going.
When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you; if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.
Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.
I hate people but I love gatherings.
I screamed, and – lo! – Infinity Came down and settled over me.
Although we sometimes did without a few of life’s necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.
Guess I’ll weep awhile. Guess I won’t, I mean.
A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
There is no God. But it does not matter. Man is enough.