That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
I sought them far and found them, The sure, the straight, the brave, The hearts I lost my own to, The souls I could not save They braced their belts about them, They crossed in ships the sea, They sought and found six feet of ground, And there they died for me.
I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.
A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.
Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
If a man will comprehend the richness and variety of the universe, and inspire his mind with a due measure of wonder and awe, he must contemplate the human intellect not only on its heights of genius but in its abysses of ineptitude.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.
When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
Existence is not itself a good thing, that we should spend a lifetime securing its necessaries: a life spent, however victoriously, in securing the necessaries of life is no more than an elaborate furnishing and decoration of apartments for the reception of a guest who is never to come. Our business here is not to live, but to live happily.
Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.
I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist); and that philosophy is founded on my observation of the world, not on anything so trivial and irrelevant as personal history.
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