Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s Lace.
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak...
I am waylaid by beauty.
Here’s a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.
Life isn’t all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.
Progress-progress is the dirtiest word in the language-who ever told us- And made us believe it-that to take a step forward was necessarily, was always A good idea?
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo; and the happier he.
On and on eternally Shall your altered fluid run, Bud and bloom and go to seed; But your singing days are done.
Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness – presently Every bed is narrow.
O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure.
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.