Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink.
If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.
I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear.
But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
A grave is such a quiet place.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before.
Longing alone is singer to the lute.
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age. The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere.
Without music I should wish to die.
Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain – Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start.
After the feet of beauty fly my own.
Please don’t think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don’t think me either.
I find that I never lose Bach. I don’t know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.
My candle burns at both ends.
I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.