Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.
You are loved. If so, what else matters?
Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
Music my rampart, and my only one.
Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
What should I be but just what I am?
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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.