It seems to me that true love is a discipline.
We must not make a false faith by hiding from our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make to God, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.
Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art.
I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?
Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.
And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while.
I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'
All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
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