A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out all the years.
Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
There are three good things in this world. One is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.
They say that the Dead die not, but remain Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth. I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these, In wise majestic melancholy train, And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas, And men, coming and going on the earth.
It’s all a terrible tragedy. And yet, in it’s details, it’s great fun. And – apart from the tragedy – I’ve never felt happier or better in my life than in those days in Belgium.
Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.
Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn’t there, but the need is very great.
If I should die, think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.
Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.
One may not doubt that, somehow Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And sure, the reverent eye must see A purpose in Liquidity.
Infinite hungers leap no more I in the chance swaying of your dress; and love has changed to kindliness.