When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most.
Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom, golden in the green grass, This life can be. Common as a dandelion-blossom, beautiful in the clean grass, not beautiful Because common, beautiful because beautiful, Noble because common, because free.
Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.
Life must go on, Though good men die.
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.