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.
Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.
Life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
The only people I really hate are servants. They’re not really human beings at all.
Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry; let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.
The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here – but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!
Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.
I make bean stalks, I’m A builder, like yourself.
I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.
Life is a quest and love a quarrel.
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply...
It’s not love’s going hurts my days But that it went in little ways.
Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me.
Cut if you will with sleep’s dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he’ll take from off the other end!
So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, “One thing there’s no getting by – I’ve been a wicked girl,” said I; But if I can’t be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!
I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.