O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant
The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.
Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Birth, and copulation, and death; that's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.
War among men defiles this world.
I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.
Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.
What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.
It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.
It has frequently been said that we never desire what we think absolutely inapprehensible: it is however true that some of our sharpest agonies are those in which the object of desire is regarded as both possible and imaginary.
I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me, I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful afterall
I was too slow a mover to be a boxer. It was much easier to be a poet.
There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman -But who is that on the other side of you?
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.
We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors' victory, though that victory itself will be temporary; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors and issues.
We have all our private terrors, our particular shadows, our secret fears. We are afraid in a fear which we cannot face, which none understands, and our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the layers of an onion, ourselves the last.
Every nation, every race, has not only its own creative, but its own critical turn of mind; and is even more oblivious of the shortcomings and limitations of its critical habits than of those of its creative genius.
If we are moved by a poem, it has meant something, perhaps something important, to us; if we are not moved, then it is, as poetry, meaningless.
It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the 'dear deceit' of beauty.
O father, father Gone from us, lost to us, The church lies bereft, Alone, Desecrated, desolated. And the heathen shall build On the ruins Their world without God. I see it. I see it.
The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours.
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