Bounds should be set To ingenuity for being so cruel In bringing change unheralded on the unready.
There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.
... War is for everyone, for children too. I wasn't going to tell you and I mustn't. The best way is to come uphill with me And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.
Haven't you heard, though, About the ships where war has found them out At sea, about the towns where war has come Through opening clouds at night with droning speed Further o'erhead than all but stars and angels And children in the ships and in the towns?
The footpath down to the well is healed.
To Time it never seems that he is brave To set himself against the peaks of snow To lay them level with the running wave, Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low, But only grave, contemplative and grave.
Nature's first green is gold.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
What an exciting age it is we live in With all this talk about the hope of youth And nothing made of youth.
When I was young, I was so interested in baseball that my family was afraid I'd waste my life and be a pitcher. Later they were afraid I'd waste my life and be a poet. They were right.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
Summoning artists to participate In the august occasions of the state Seems something artists ought to celebrate. Today is for my cause a day of days.
Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
A name with meaning could bring up a child, Taking the child out of the parents' hands. Better a meaningless name, I should say, As leaving more to nature and happy chance. Name children some names and see what you do.
Democracy is the best chance for the best people.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--- The white one in his tail: like one who takes everything said as personal to himself.
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Trust him to have his bitter politics Against his unacquaintances the rich Who sleep in houses of their own, though mortgaged. Conservatives, they don't know what to save.
Let those possess the land, and only those, Who love it with a love so strong and stupid That they may be abused and taken advantage of And made fun of by business, law, and art.
Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.
Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any. Join the United States and join the family- But not much in between unless a college.
Love has earth to which she clings.
Yet some say Love by being thrall And simply staying possesses all In several beauty that Thought fares far To find fused in another star.
The best thing we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's a telescope. Someone in every town, seems to me, owes it to the town to keep one.
Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspectthey differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields.
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