And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew...
Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
All think what other people think; All know the man their neighbor knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?
I thought of rhyme alone, For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble And make the daylight sweet once more...
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay.
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze...
O heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What’s not for their applause, Being for a woman’s sake.
Man has created death.
My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind’s eye than any face But that of Christ.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year; Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer’s had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind; I ran, I ran, from my love’s side because my Heart went mad.
May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
Though pedantry denies, It’s plain the Bible means That Solomon grew wise While talking with his queens...
And there’s a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. “Hound voices” were they all.
Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted, Their heads being turned with praise and flattery; And that is why their lovers are afraid To tell them a plain story.