Evil alone has oil for every wheel.
Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.
Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
Life has no friend...
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
Father, I beg of Thee a little task To dignify my days, ’tis all I ask.
For the body at best Is a bundle of aches, Longing for rest; It cries when it wakes.
And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
The world stands out on either side, No wider than the heart is wide.
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.