There are three good things in this world. One is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to fate.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?
Canada is a live country – live, but not, like the States, kicking.
Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
Youth is stranger than fiction.
Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.
For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.
Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
All the little emptiness of love!
Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
But there’s wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish.
There’s little comfort in the wise.
And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.
Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Love is a flame; we have beaconed the world’s night.