Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.
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.
Nobody speaks to me. People fall in love with me, and annoy me and distress me and flatter me and excite me and – and all that sort of thing. But no one speaks to me. I sometimes think that no one can. Can you?
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.
The poem is the thing. Is it interesting? – Is it beautiful? –Is it sublime? Then it was written by nobody. It exists by itself.
I met the wolf alone and was devoured in peace.
The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat – the sky Will cave in on him by and by.
PIERROT: Of course not. There never was. “Moon’s” just a word to swear by. “Mutton!“ – now there’s a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust. COLUMBINE: Well, eat it, then, For Heaven’s sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven’t heard the clock tick for an hour.
A person who publishes a book wilfully appears before the populace with his pants down. –.
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
This summer has been so short, so small. I think that like “Alice” it ate the cake that said “Eat Me”, and dwindled and dwindled until it was so tiny that it ran out through the cracks under the door.
The most I ever did for you was to outlive you. But that is much.
I bleed, but know not wherefore, know not where.
We move in darkness, solemn and extreme.