We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.
A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence.
Detective stories have nothing to do with works of art.
Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes i do not like my work On a pink official form.
Does God judge us by appearances? I Suspect that He does.
Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral
Composing mortals with immortal fire.
The camera may do justice to laughter, but must degrade sorrow.
Warm are the still and lucky miles, White shores of longing stretch away, A light of recognition fills The whole great day, and bright The tiny world of lovers' arms. Silence invades the breathing wood Where drowsy limbs a treasure keep, Now greenly falls the learned shade Across the sleeping brows And stirs their secret to a smile. Restored! Returned! The lost are borne On seas of shipwreck home at last: See! In a fire of praising burns The dry dumb past, and we Our life-day long shall part no more.
If time were the wicked sheriff in a horse opera, I'd pay for riding lessons and take his gun away.
Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance.
Swans in the winter air A white perfection have
Long ago the accusations had begun, And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged
the child unlucky in his little State, Some hearth where freedom is excluded, A hive whose honey is fear and worry, Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape
The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again.
For time is inches And the heart's changes, Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted.
Between labor and play stands work. A man is a worker if he is personally interested in the job which society pays him to do; whatfrom the point of view of society is necessary labor is from his point of view voluntary play. Whether a job is to be classified as labor or work depends, not on the job itself, but on the tastes of the individual who undertakes it. The difference does not, for example, coincide with the difference between a manual and a mental job; a gardener or a cobbler may be a worker, a bank clerk a laborer.
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.
If it form the one landscape that we the inconstant ones Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly Because it dissolves in water.
But he would have us most of all remember to be enthusiastic over the night. Not only for the sense of wonder it alone has to offer but also because it needs our love. For with sad eyes its delectable creatures look up and beg us dumbly to ask them to follow. They are exiles who long for a future that lies in our power.
As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
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