Poet Quotes

 A great lie is like a great fish on dry land; it may fret and fling, and make a frightful bother, but it cannot hurt you. You have only to keep still and it will die of itself. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Late Fragment - And did you get what you wanted in this life even so? I did And what is it you wanted? To call myself beloved To feel myself beloved on the earth. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 At some glad moment was it nature's choice to dower a scrap of sunset with a voice? 
Author: Edgar Fawcett
Nationality: American
b. 26 May 1847  - d. 2 May 1904
  
 Australians never take root. We never have and never will. We follow European and American culture as if were lip readers trying to make out what's being said. Other countries have their roots in something, that's why they have ideals and ideas and fight for them. That's their torture, to die for a vision. Our torture is to have no vision worth dying for. We're a silly hybrid, like the head of a monkey sown onto a dog, and have no soul. 
Author: Louis Nowra
Nationality: Australian
b. 12 December 1950
  
 Beauty when most unclothed is clothed best. 
Author: Phineas Fletcher
Nationality: English
b. December 1582  - d.  December 1650
  
 Before you kill something make sure you have something better to replace it with; something better than political opportunist slamming hate horseshit in the public park. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Deceivers are the most dangerous members of society. They trifle with the best parts of our nature, and violate the most sacred obligations. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Evil is unspectacular and always human And shares our bed and eats at our own table. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Geniuses are the luckiest of mortals because what they must do is the same as what they most want to do. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 God owns heaven but He craves the earth. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Habit with him was all the test of truth, 'It must be right: I've done it from my youth'. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 Half my life is full of sorrow, Half of joy, still fresh and new; One of these lives is a fancy, But the other one is true. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 He knows much of what men paint themselves would blister in the light of what they are. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, And ease of heart her every look conveyed. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 How far high failure overleaps the bound of low successes. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 How to keep - is there any any, is there none such, nowhere known, some bow or brooch or braid or brace, lace, latch or catch or key to keep Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty... from vanishing away? 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I don't say what God is, but a name that somehow answers us when we are driven to feel and think how little we have to do with what we are. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 I have a rendezvous with Death, At some disputed barricade, At midnight in some flaming town. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 I wonder if the artist ever lives his life - he is so busy recreating it. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me; I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way. I'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you, To brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue; I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard, And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred. I'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me, Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be; I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon. I'm wishing at this time that I could but repay A portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way; And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be: I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 In idle wishes fools supinely stay; Be there a will and wisdom finds the way. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Ingratitude is treason to mankind. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage. Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of love. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 May it not be that, just as we have faith in Him, God has to have faith in us and, considering the history of the human race so far, may it not be that faith is even more difficult for Him than it is for us? 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Memory is a man's real possession. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Most people enjoy the sight of their own handwriting as they enjoy the smell of their own farts. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, The achieve of, the mastery of the thing! 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment. 
Author: George Augustas Sala
Nationality: English
b. 24 November 1828  - d. 08 December 1895
  
 Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day- That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear. And then he ran to her and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said- 'I'm not afraid, You'll shield me from all harm.' 'What makes the lamb love Mary so,' The little chldren cry; 'O, Mary loves the lamb you know,' The Teacher did reply, 'And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind.' 
Author: Sarah Josepha Hale
Nationality: American
b. 24 October 1788  - d. 30 April 1879
  
 Now is the age of anxiety. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given, Ready, too, to let them go. 
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 Only those in the last stage of disease could believe that children are true judges of character. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Peace is the happy natural state of man; war is corruption and disgrace. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 Poems aren't postcards to send home. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 They darted down and rose up like a wave Or buzzed impetuously as before; One would have thought the corpse was held a slave To living by the life it bore! 
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys, Are never valued till they make a noise. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, To comfort, To coax And, above all things else, Be accomplished at seeing My jokes. 
Author: Sir Owen Seaman
Nationality: British
b. 18 September 1861  - d. 2 February 1936
  
 Silence is more musical than any song. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place The place assigned me here. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 So that at Christmas, man is almost what God sent him here to be. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 Some thirty inches from my nose The frontier of my Person goes, And all the untilled air between Is private pagus or demesne. Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes I beckon you to fraternize, Beware of rudely crossing it; I have no gun, but I can spit. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Spring is when life's alive in everything. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare The truth thou hast, that all may share; Be bold, proclaim it everywhere: They only live who dare. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Television is a corporate vulgarity. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Tell almost the whole story. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 That which makes people dissatisfied with their condition, is the chimerical idea they form of the happiness of others. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 The best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds. 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 The British Bourgeoisie Is not born, And does not die, But, if it is ill, It has a frightened look in its eyes. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 The class distinctions proper to a democratic society are not those of rank or money, still less, as is apt to happen when these are abandoned, of race, but of age. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The game, he said, is never lost till won. 
Author: George Crabbe
Nationality: English
b. 24 December 1754  - d. 3 February 1832
  
 The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one, Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one, Yet the light of a whole life dies When its love is done. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 The Old Masters. About suffering they were never wrong. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The power is yours, but not the sight; You see not upon what you tread; You have the ages for your guide, But not the wisdom to be led. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 The vilest thing must be less vile than Thou From whom it had its being, God and Lord! 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 This is the Night Mail crossing the Border Bringing the cheque and the postal order. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Love your self's self where it lives. There is no special God to refer to; or if there is, why did I let you grow in another place. You did not know my voice when I came back to call. All the superlatives of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe will not help you know the holidays you had to miss. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I rot on the wall, my own 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I imitate a memory of belief that I do not own. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Fact: death too is in the egg. Fact: the body is dumb, the body is meat. And tomorrow the O.R. Only the summer was sweet. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Need is not quite belief. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Dearest, although everything has happened, nothing has happened. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warm the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 It would be pleasant to be drunk: faithless to my tongue and hands, giving up the boundaries for the heroic gin. Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool. I will try it shortly. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in their stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 In a dream you are never eighty. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I grow old on my bitterness. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Love! That red disease —  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Why have your eyes gone into their own room? 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 My mouth blooms like a cut. I've been wronged all year, tedious nights, nothing but rough elbows in them and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby crybaby, you fool!  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I am alive when your fingers are. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 You said the anger would come back just as the love did. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 He puts his bones back on, Turning the clock back an hour. She knows flesh, that skin balloon, the unbound limbs, the boards, the roof, the removable roof. She is his selection, part time. You know the story too! Look, when it is over he places her, like a phone, back on the hook. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Catch me. I'm your disease. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 With a tongue like a razor he will kiss the mother, the child, and we three will color the stars black in memory of his mother who kept him chained to the food tree or turned him on and off like a water faucet and made women through all these hazy years the enemy with a heart of lies. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 In my sights I carve him like a sculptor. I mold out his last look at everyone. I carry his eyes and his brain bone at every position. I know his male sex and I do march over him with my index finger. His mouth and his anus are one. I am at the center of feeling. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in. Very quick. Very intense, like a wolf at a live heart. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 What can I do with this memory? Shake the bones out of it? Defoliate the smile? Stub out the chin with cigarettes? Take the face of the man I love and squeeze my foot into it, when all the while my heart is making a museum? I love you the way the oboe plays. I love you the way skinny dipping makes my body feel. I love you the way a ripe artichoke tastes. Yet I fear you, as one in the desert fears the sun. "Waking Alone" from The Divorce Papers 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss. I am pushing knives through the hands that created two into one. Our hands do not bleed at this, they lie still in their dishonor. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 There is rust in my mouth, the stain of an old kiss. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Death, I need my little addiction to you. need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 I begin again, Dr.Y, this neverland journal, full of my own sense of filth. Why else keep a journal, if not to examine your own filth? "Letters to Dr. Y." 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 God is only mocked by believers.  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Blue eyes wash off sometimes 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Here in the hospital, I say, that is not my body, not my body. I am not here for the doctors to read like a recipe. "August 17th" from Scorpio, Bad Spider, Die: The Horoscope Poems 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 We all walk softly away. We would stay and be the nurse but there are too many of us and we are too worried to help. It is love that walks away and yet we have terrible mouths and soft milk hands. We worry with like. We walk away like love. 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Earth, earth riding your merry-go-round toward extinction, right to the roots thickening the oceans like gravy, festering in your caves, you are becoming a latrine.  
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 To love another is something like prayer and it can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief. "Admonitions to a Special Person" (1974) from Last Poems 
Author: Anne Sexton
Nationality: American
b. 09 November 1928  - d. 04 October 1974
  
 Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And, when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between and bid us part? 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: 'Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves; Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.' 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence? 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 There studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Ships dim-discovered dropping from the clouds. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Sighed and looked unutterable things. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 The negligence of Nature wide and wild, Where, undisguised by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired— 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 For loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorned adorned the most. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thulè, and th' Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides. 
Author: James Thomson
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 I suppose this is the last letter I shall ever write you from Harvard. The thought seems a little queer, but it cannot be otherwise. Sometimes I try to imagine the state my mind would be in had I never come here, but I cannot. I feel that I have got comparatively little from my two years, but still, more than I could get in Gardiner if I lived a century. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 Writing has been my dream ever since I was old enough to lay a plan for an air castle. Now for the first time I seem to have something like a favorable opportunity and this winter I shall make a beginning. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 A thousand golden sheaves were lying there, Shining and still, but not for long to stay— As if a thousand girls with golden hair Might rise from where they slept and go away. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 Are we no greater than the noise we make Along one blind atomic pilgrimage Whereon by crass chance billeted we go Because our brains and bones and cartilage Will have it so? 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich - yes, richer than a king - And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 He was himself and he had lost the speed He started with, and he was left behind. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 You have made The cement of your churches out of tears And ashes, and the fabric will not stand. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 The gods are growing old; The stars are singing Golden hair to gray Green leaf to yellow leaf, - or chlorophyl To xanthophyl, to be more scientific. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 We are young And we are friends of time. 
Author: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Nationality: American
b. 22 December 1869  - d. 6 April 1935
  
 Sudden thy silent beauty on me shone, Fair as the moon had given thee all her spell. Then, as Endymion had found on earth, In unchanged beauty but in fashion changed, Her whom I loved so long; so felt I then, Not that a new love in my heart had birth, But that the old, that far from reach had ranged, Was now on earth, and to be loved of men. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 As strong, as deep, as wide as is the sea, Though by the wind made restless as the wind, By billows fretted and by rocks confined, So strong, so deep, so wide my love for thee. "Sonnet II" in Scribner's Monthly Vol. IX 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 So my great love for thee lies tranquil, deep, Forever; though above it passions fierce, Ambition, hatred, jealousy; like waves That seem from earth’s core to the sky to leap, But ocean’s depths can never really pierce; Hide its great calm, while all the surface raves. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 I walk as one unclothed of flesh, I wash my spirit clean; I see old miracles afresh, And wonders yet unseen. I will not leave Thee till Thou give Some word whereby my soul may live! I listened — but no voice I heard; I looked — no likeness saw; Slowly the joy of flower and bird Did like a tide withdraw; And in the heaven a silent star Smiled on me, infinitely far. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 I buoyed me on the wings of dream, Above the world of sense; I set my thought to sound the scheme, And fathom the Immense; I tuned my spirit as a lute To catch wind-music wandering mute. Yet came there never voice nor sign; But through my being stole Sense of a Universe divine, And knowledge of a soul Perfected in the joy of things, The star, the flower, the bird that sings. Nor I am more, nor less, than these; All are one brotherhood; I and all creatures, plants, and trees, The living limbs of God; And in an hour, as this, divine, I feel the vast pulse throb in mine. 
Author: Francis W. Bourdillon
Nationality: British
b. 22 March 1852  - d. 13 January 1921
  
 WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf And the harebell shakes on the windy hill - O breath of the distant surf!— The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs; Two children did we stray and talk Wiseidlechildish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a birdso sweet a song Thronged in whose throat all day. Ohthere were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face. She gave me tokens three: - A looka word of her winsome mouth And a wild raspberry. A berry reda guileless look A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wildwild heart Fly down to her little hand. For standing artless as the air And candid as the skies She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully Then went her sunshine way - The sea's eye had a mist on it And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all he partings gone And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet The sweetness in the sad. Stillstill I seemed to see herstill Look up with soft replies And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing beginsand nothing ends That is not paid with moan For we are born in other's pain And perish in our own. 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 I Fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat -and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet - ‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’ I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followèd, Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled, 25 And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars; Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon. I said to Dawn: Be sudden -to Eve: Be soon; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover - Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue; Or whether, Thunder-driven, They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet: - Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat - ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’ I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children’s eyes Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. ‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s -share With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses, Wantoning With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses, Banqueting With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured daïs, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’ So it was done: I in their delicate fellowship was one - Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies. I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings; All that’s born or dies Rose and drooped with; made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine; With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day’s dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning’s eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat, And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound I speak - Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; Let her, if she would owe me, Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o’ her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, With unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; And past those noisèd Feet A voice comes yet more fleet - ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’ Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years - My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must - Designer infinite! - Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: ‘And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said), ‘And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited - Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms. All which thy child’s mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’ Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’ 
Author: Francis Thompson
Nationality: English
b. 18 December 1859  - d. 13 November 1907
  
 My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.  
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpecked cherries - Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries - All ripe together In summer weather - Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy; Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye, Come buy, come buy." Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bowed her head to hear, Lizzie veiled her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger-tips. "Lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" "Come buy," call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men." Lizzie covered up her eyes Covered close lest they should look; Laura reared her glossy head, And whispered like the restless brook: "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds' weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes." "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us." She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat's face, One whisked a tail, One tramped at a rat's pace, One crawled like a snail, One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry. Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. Laura stretched her gleaming neck Like a rush -imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turned and trooped the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, "Come buy, come buy." When they reached where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One reared his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heaved the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Longed but had no money: The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr'd, The rat-paced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly"; One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: "Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather." "You have much gold upon your head," They answered altogether: "Buy from us with a golden curl." She clipped a precious golden lock, She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flowed that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She sucked and sucked and sucked the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore, She sucked until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away, But gathered up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turned home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: "Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Plucked from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the moonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so." "Nay hush," said Laura. "Nay hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more," and kissed her. "Have done with sorrow; I'll bring you plums to -morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons, icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink, With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap." Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other's wings, They lay down, in their curtained bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fallen snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipped with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars beamed in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapped to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Locked together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churned butter, whipped up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day's delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came - They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags, No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep." But Laura loitered still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still, The dew not fallen, the wind not chill: Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, "Come buy, come buy," With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit -merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come, I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glow-worm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark; For clouds may gather even Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?" Laura turned cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, "Come buy our fruits, come buy." Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life drooped from the root: She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning, Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent 'til Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain, In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: "Come buy, come buy," She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon waxed bright Her hair grew thin and gray; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay, and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root, Watched for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crowned trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney -nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister's cankerous care, Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins' cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy." Beside the brook, along the glen She heard the tramp of goblin men, The voice and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, But feared to pay too dear, She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter-time, With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time. Till Laura, dwindling, Seemed knocking at Death's door: Then Lizzie weighed no more Better and worse, But put a silver penny in her purse, Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook, And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laughed every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter -skelter, hurry -skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes, - Hugged her and kissed her; Squeezed and caressed her; Stretched up their dishes, Panniers and plates: "Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs." "Good folk," said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie, "Give me much and many"; - Held out her apron, Tossed them her penny. "Nay, take a seat with us, Honor and eat with us," They answered grinning; "Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry; Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavor would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us." "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits At home alone for me: So, without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I tossed you for a fee." They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One called her proud, Cross-grained, uncivil; Their tones waxed loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbowed and jostled her, Clawed with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soiled her stocking, Twitched her hair out by the roots, Stamped upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeezed their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood, Like a rock of blue-veined stone Lashed by tides obstreperously, - Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire, - Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee, - Like a royal virgin town Topped with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguered by a fleet Mad to tear her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, Coaxed and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, Kicked and knocked her, Mauled and mocked her, Lizzie uttered not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in; But laughed in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syruped all her face, And lodged in dimples of her chin, And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot. Some writhed into the ground, Some dived into the brook With ring and ripple. Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanished in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse, - Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she feared some goblin man Dogged her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin skurried after, Nor was she pricked by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried "Laura," up the garden, "Did you miss me ? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me: For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men." Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutched her hair: "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruined in my ruin; Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" She clung about her sister, Kissed and kissed and kissed her: Tears once again Refreshed her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loathed the feast: Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks streamed like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame, She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense failed in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind -uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topped water-spout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life ? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watched by her, Counted her pulse's flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cooled her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Opened of cup -like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laughed in the innocent old way, Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, Her breath was sweet as May, And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months,years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not -returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town;) Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, "For there is no friend like a sister, In calm or stormy weather, To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands." 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over, Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past, Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover, Sleeping at last. 
Author: Christina Rossetti
Nationality: English
b. 5 December 1830  - d. 29 December 1894
  
 It is music to my ears. I have always said that if I were a rich man, I would employ a professional praiser. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 Heroic figures are now obsolete, So Demigod and Devil find retreat In minds of children - as rare beasts and men, Elsewhere extinct, persist in hill or fen From man protected - where each form assumes Gigantic stature and intention, looms From wind-moved, twilight-woven histories: For them each flower teems with mysteries. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 For Poetry is the wisdom of the blood, That scarlet tree within, which has the power To make dull words bud forth and burst in flower. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 Educated: during the holidays from Eton. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 How simple-minded of the Germans to imagine that we British could be cowed by the destruction of our ancient monuments! As though any havoc of the German bombs could possibly equal the things we have done ourselves! 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 Everywhere men have unlocked the prisoners within, and from under the disguising skins the apes have leapt joyfully out. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 They loved him, I think, because, with all his merits, he showed them to be rich: looking at his portraits, they understood at last how rich they really were. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 The Rich Man's Banquet, which was to last for a decade, had now begun: the feast, it was recognised, went to the greediest. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 Hell has a climate, but no situation. It lies in the spirit, and not in space. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 The only difference between an artist and a lunatic is, perhaps, that the artist has the restraint or courtesy…to conceal the intensity of his obsession from all except those similarly afflicted. 
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Nationality: English
b. 6 December 1892  - d. 4 May 1969
  
 It don't make a difference how rich ye get t' be' How much yer chairs and tables cost, how great the luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything. Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born an' then... Right there ye've got t' bring em up t' women good, an' men; Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' living in it." 
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 When you’re up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When it’s vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but you may conquer, See it through! Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim, But don’t let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the worst is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will not save you, See it through! Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you’re beset, But remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but fall still fighting; Don’t give up, whate’er you do; Eyes front, head high to the finish. See it through!  
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Nationality: American
b. 20 August 1881  - d. 06 August 1964
  
 It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I love creeks and the music they make. And rills, in glades and meadows, before they have a chance to become creeks. I may even love them best of all for their secrecy. I almost forgot to say something about the source! Can anything be more wonderful than a spring? But the big streams have my heart too. And the places streams flow into rivers. The open mouths of rivers where they join the sea. The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places. But these coastal rivers! I love them the way some men love horses or glamorous women. I have a thing for this cold swift water. Just looking at it makes my blood run and my skin tingle. I could sit and watch these rivers for hours. Not one of them like any other. I'm 45 years old today. Would anyone believe it if I said I was once 35? My heart empty and sere at 35! Five more years had to pass before it began to flow again. I'll take all the time I please this afternoon before leaving my place alongside this river. It pleases me, loving rivers. Loving them all the way back to their source. Loving everything that increases me. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 So early it's still almost dark out. I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought. Happiness - When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper. They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder. They are so happy they aren't saying anything, these boys. I think if they could, they would take each other's arm. It's early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together. They come on, slowly. The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water. Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn't enter into this. Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Your Dog Dies - it gets run over by a van. you find it at the side of the road and bury it. you feel bad about it. you feel bad personally, but you feel bad for your daughter because it was her pet, and she loved it so. she used to croon to it and let it sleep in her bed. you write a poem about it. you call it a poem for your daughter, about the dog getting run over by a van and how you looked after it, took it out into the woods and buried it deep, deep, and that poem turns out so good you're almost glad the little dog was run over, or else you'd never have written that good poem. then you sit down to write a poem about writing a poem about the death of that dog, but while you're writing you hear a woman scream your name, your first name, both syllables, and your heart stops. after a minute, you continue writing. she screams again. you wonder how long this can go on. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Fear - Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive. Fear of falling asleep at night. Fear of not falling asleep. Fear of the past rising up. Fear of the present taking flight. Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night. Fear of electrical storms. Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite. Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend. Fear of running out of money. Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this. Fear of psychological profiles. Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else. Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes. Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty. Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine. Fear of confusion. Fear this day will end on an unhappy note. Fear of waking up to find you gone. Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough. Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love. Fear of death. Fear of living too long. Fear of death.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year - October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen I study my father's embarrassed young man's face. Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string of spiny yellow perch, in the other a bottle of Carlsbad Beer. In jeans and denim shirt, he leans against the front fender of a 1934 Ford. He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity, Wear his old hat cocked over his ear. All his life my father wanted to be bold. But the eyes give him away, and the hands that limply offer the string of dead perch and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you, yet how can I say thank you, I who ca 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Drinking While Driving - It's August and I have not Read a book in six months except something called The Retreat from Moscow by Caulaincourt Nevertheless, I am happy Riding in a car with my brother and drinking from a pint of Old Crow. We do not have any place in mind to go, we are just driving. If I closed my eyes for a minute I would be lost, yet I could gladly lie down and sleep forever beside this road My brother nudges me. Any minute now, something will happen. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 This Morning - This morning was something. A little snow lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green, as far as the eye could see. Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer. I passed close to some old, bent-over trees. Crossed a field strewn with rocks where snow had drifted. Kept going until I reached the bluff. Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts began to wander. I had to will myself to see what I was seeing and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what mattered, not the other. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrong - duty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife. All the things I hoped would go away this morning. The stuff I live with every day. What I've trampled on in order to stay alive. But for a minute or two I did forget myself and everything else. I know I did. For when I turned back i didn't know where I was. Until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees. And flew 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 What the Doctor Said - He said it doesn't look good he said it looks bad in fact real bad he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before I quit counting them I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know about any more being there than that he said are you a religious man do you kneel down in forest groves and let yourself ask for help when you come to a waterfall mist blowing against your face and arms do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments I said not yet but I intend to start today he said I'm real sorry he said I wish I had some other kind of news to give you I said Amen and he said something else I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do and not wanting him to have to repeat it and me to have to fully digest it I just looked at him for a minute and he looked back it was then I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me something no one else on earth had ever given me I may have even thanked him habit being so strong 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Best Time Of The Day - Cool summer nights. Windows open. Lamps burning. Fruit in the bowl. And your head on my shoulder. These the happiest moments in the day. Next to the early morning hours, of course. And the time just before lunch. And the afternoon, and early evening hours. But I do love these summer nights. Even more, I think, than those other times. The work finished for the day. And no one who can reach us now. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Stupid - It's what the kids nowadays call weed. And it drifts like clouds from his lips. He hopes no one comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help. Help is what he's most short on tonight. A storm thrashes outside. Heavy sea with gale winds from the west. The table he sits at is, say, two cubits long and one wide. The darkness in the room teems with insight. Could be he'll write an adventure novel. Or else a children's story. A play for two female characters, one of whom is blind. Cutthroat should be coming into the river. One thing he'll do is learn to tie his own flies. Maybe he should give more money to each of his surviving family members. The ones who already expect a little something in the mail first of each month. Every time they write they tell him they're coming up short. He counts heads on his fingers and finds they're all survivng. So what if he'd rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers? He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain hammers on. After a while - who knows how long? - his eyes ask that they be closed. And he closes them. But the rain keeps hammering. Is this a cloudburst? Should he do something? Secure the house in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years. Then hanged himself. He opens his eyes again. Nothing adds up. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 An Afternoon - As he writes, without looking at the sea, he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble. The tide is going out across the shingle. But it isn't that. No, it's because at that moment she chooses to walk into the room without any clothes on. Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead. Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her through the doorway. Maybe she's remembering what happened that morning. For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him. And sweetly smiles.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Bobber - On the Columbia River near Vantage, Washington, we fished for whitefish in the winter months; my dad, Swede- Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown flies baited with maggots. They wanted distance and went clear out there to the edge of the riffle. I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. My dad kept his maggots alive and warm under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. I liked him better than my dad for a time. He lets me steer his car, teased me about my name "Junior," and said one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember all this, and fish with my own son. But my dad was right. I mean he kept silent and looked into the river, worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Current - These fish have no eyes these silver fish that come to me in dreams, scattering their roe and milt in the pockets of my brain. But there's one that comes - heavy, scarred, silent like the rest, that simply holds against the current, closing its dark mouth against the current, closing and opening as it holds to the current. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Cobweb - A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck of the house. From there I could see and hear the water, and everything that's happened to me all these years. It was hot and still. The tide was out. No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing a cobweb touched my forehead. It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned and went inside. There was no wind. The sea was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade. Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath touches it. A fine thread. Intricate. Before long, before anyone realizes, I'll be gone from here. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Circulation - By the time I came around to feeling pain and woke up, moonlight flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed, propped up like an old anchor under your back. You were in a dream, you said later, where you'd arrived early for the dance. But after a moment's anxiety you were okay because it was really a sidewalk sale, and the shoes you were wearing, or not wearing, were fine for that. "Help me," I said. And tried to hoist my arm. But it just lay there, aching, unable to rise on its own. Even after you said, "What is it? What's wrong?" it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved by any expression of fear or amazement. We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep," I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was. But I couldn't laugh. Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it. This can't be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life. Shook it until that stinging went away. We said a few words to each other. I don't remember what. Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance. I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes. You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed. Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed on our respective sides. Pulled the covers up. "Good night," you said, for the second time that night. And fell asleep. Maybe into that same dream, or else another. I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest. Working my fingers now and then. While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where they'd started from. That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, there's another, far more bizarre, we still have to make. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 The Scratch - I woke up with a spot of blood over my eye. A scratch halfway across my forehead. But I'm sleeping alone these days. Why on earth would a man raise his hand against himself, even in sleep? It's this and similar questions I'm trying to answer this morning. As I study my face in the window. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Booze takes a lot of time and effort if you're going to do a good job with it. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick. 
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.  
Author: Raymond Carver
Nationality: American
b. 25 November 1938  - d. 02 August 1988
  
 My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder. 
Author: Sir William Gerald Golding
Nationality: British
b. 19 September 1911  - d. 19 June 1993
  
 Poem Title: Words - Words' purpose - to tell Of the earth and starry sky, All living things between, Of sunlit, spindrift moments, Where only and once can you Find yourself, your time. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Certainty Becomes - Certainty becomes time's whole cloth; But that is what we never can have, And a moment more in time shows Our time is out of true. Certainty sees only the straight road; Many chapters have been written, Many conclusions proposed, all comfortable, But we cannot know the end of our story. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 The Way of Poetry is a short work dealing with what I see as the connections between Daoism and writing poetry in the C21 in the west. It contains 10 of my own poems. It has been published in the US by the Three Pines Press. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Out-Years The out-years are being planned By greasy noses-a wilderness of paper, Words, mission-statements, and needless Needs, and crying needful needs - And their course is foreknown. Why should anyone not embrace them? They are their own best reason, Their needs choose themselves For the heads who fit around them And their own best reasons. If other years are shaping, then Their reasons will be otherwise; If they burst-like spring-upon Our world, then everything will flower, Old reasons left nowhere. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Last Day - On that last day, suddenly freed From anything we might have To do, even duty, why not wander In the afternoon sunlight, looking At flocks of birds, examining Even the dustiest leaves? Or perhaps write poetry which Has meaning only in some other Time, wondering at the rareness Of this special hour, now the weight Has lifted, and others have assumed Their roles for the time. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Never Tell It All - Never tell it all Like it really was, You’ve no idea Who'll be listening— You’ll have to contend With derision, laughter; You'll have to contend With incomprehension and hate. Worse, you’ll see then What you say taken And twisted in ways You never dreamt of. Never tell it all, There’s pride involved— Do you want to say Where you were? Do you want to say What you thought? What you really took To that secret place? Do you want to tell The why and the wherefore, The needs you had, The great solace granted? Never tell it all Like it really was, You may not understand The half of it yourself. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: This Version - You might not want this version, Might prefer that version, but this Is what you have. It’s immediate, understandable; You can make changes here As best you can. What you don’t have is what You don’t want-ideal, unlikeable, Always out of reach. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: A Few Pages In - A few pages in and already The plot has been laid out - We know it will follow either The expected course, or not, The well-trodden way of paradox. And in doing so what we’ll Get is a description of what We know already, or could Easily guess, plus a few Steps on the psychological side. Why not leap now to the end - A poem, not a tedious story - Why follow the way of all prose Though the vale of the known To every expected ending? 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Wind That Blow Through Our Mind - If you think of the winds that blow Through our lives, you might think: Of the wind of childhood, blowing The tall grasses and hayflowers along The hedges, setting the poplar leaves A-flutter-the wind you always Wanted to capture, set down, Whose beauty you guessed at, felt, But could not see, could not frame; Of the summer breeze, stirring In the hot evening, bringing Cool air, carrying the sweet smell Of jasmine-scent of a love Too intense to bear, yet borne; Of the wind of late summer, smelling Of harvest smoke, of ripeness, Provoking restless thoughts - Desire to begin a journey Before winter sets well in; Of a cold autumn wind, tearing Summer to pieces, dragging clouds Like dirty hanks of wool Across the mountain tops, blowing Squalls of stinging rain before it; Of the wind on a winter's night, Gusting in the darkness, only it Moving between the unseen earth And the cold starry sky - Arcturus glaring in the north, Body disembodied, chilled to the bone; Of a great gale from out of the west, Pushing huge waves against the headland, Carrying salt spray far inland, Tossing and clattering bare branches, Bringing boughs low, making Woodland trunks creak and scream; Of the hot wind from the desert, Swirling dust, stirring the salt-bush, As you walked there to find out Who you are, where you are; If you think of these winds, you Think of the scudding, gusting wind, The living wind, the wind that blows Through our lives, through all lives - Original, living principle, First, always and everywhere. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Prisoners - They have never set foot In the wide world, have not heard Birds sing, or smelt the dawn— Shut in their peculiar prison. They have not strayed beyond Their lives, placed themselves In others’ shoes, or viewed their concerns As they might be seen by others. They attend to prayers and porn— Two sides of the same coin— They have not opened eyes To knowledge, to saving difference. The caution is well-taken: Prisoners, blinking at the light, The lack of restraint, cannot Easily find it in themselves To live, to welcome experience, Or make choices of their own. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Poem Not About Birds - This poem is not about birds - There are birds in it, As there are in many poems, But nothing of bird-life, Bird intelligence, birdliness. Birds, after all, supply their own Song, they live and persist In spite of humans, fly In close-packed stanzas, and Lead altogether poetic lives. To use their world for morals, Illumination, or a poetry - Borrowed plumes perhaps - Would be foolish... bird-brained. If you want to use birds Then practise living birdishly, Let you eye be bright, steel Enter your body, set feathers, Defend territory, sing - Then what need for birds? 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Green - It can happen like this: Each day your world grows More colourless, and all savour Tends to harsh, dusty taint. Anger and bitterness creep in - You see the world with anguished, But keen, eyes. In the end One day you die -the pain And bitterness leave you, and Instead you float, you drift, A husk. And then at dawn After the longest night, you wake And walk down to the spring. There you stoop to drink and The water is not less bitter than Before, only you do not taste The bitterness. As you walk on Your eyes are blurred, not keen, All you notice now are details - The flower, the bark pattern - Hills, ranges are out of reach. And little by little the green steals Up on you and you sense it, Green in the brown land, though You never can see it whole. Your footsteps take you nowhere And your life is harder by far Than it ever was before, only Your heart is empty -you have learned To feel nothing, but your sense Is wholly in your new sight, Your new trust, the hand you Can reach out. Your thought belongs Nowhere, as truly it never did. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: The Day of the Festival - The day of the Festival, a hot, Summer’s day, mid-afternoon, the tide Streamed away down the beach, Exposing first a fin, then a back, Leaving at last a whale stranded. Its furious thrashing in the race, Its mad efforts to burst through The sandy roil, make deep water, Had left it stranded on a shelf, Marooned high on the beach. The village people were celebrating Their Festival, with boats pulled up high; No fishing that day, of all days, Not even in this famine year, Not on the day of the Festival. Any other day keen eyes looking Seawards would have seen the whale - Villagers streamed down with knives And mattocks to butcher it, Many days of feasting for all. But this day not; the whale remained, The day grew longer, night fell, And with night the tide, carrying The whale back out to sea. At dawn the beach was empty. And in that dawn hungry fishermen Went down to launch their boats, Other villagers walked to the fields With empty stomachs, despite the Festival, The Festival of Plenty, the day before. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 These ideas once had life, Were thoughts that people once Lived, breathed, had hope in. But now they are dead, No-one can truly think them - They must be reconstructed, revived. And the language they’re clothed in - Stiff, archaic, full of words That have nothing familiar about them. It’s the stuff of antiquarianism, Preserved for history’s sake alone - Yet, these are this year’s books. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Honest Errors - These mistakes, so inexplicable, In matter of such simplicity, Have a purpose. They give it all away, confound it, Destroy the illusion of a selvedge, True acquittance. They tell us that lumpish authority Is not what we think, nothing To meddle with. Here, these honest errors say, We should not waste our time, Or expect results. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Contre Jaccottet - He says that poets might as well Be knitting - that poetry means nothing, Since the bare words on a page Are not reality, are not a life. But we don’t live very often, Or very well. Reality is something We touch at only rarely, At a few unlooked-for moments. Poetry’s more available than life - A fallible guide to that difficult Undertaking, written by those Who claimed to have lived. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Nel Mezzo - And so I approach the quiet centre, Rest from the busyness of life - Its patterns, activity and facts, which, Then and now, seem to me not A life, rather a kind of agitation Where I forget this, and forget that, And will in time remember a host Of lapidary truths that never were. Quietness says that everything Pretends a permanence it does not enjoy, That it flaunts this scurrying importance, When what obtains, what is true, Is other than the fleeting appearances, The charade never guessed correctly. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: A Circle - A circle traced in the air By the hand, yet the hand does not Make the circle, nor does the strength Of the arm, or the mind’s guidance. The circle springs from a connection Between the earth and the body; Inward force flows to turn The centre, and so the hand travels And in the air a circle’s traced. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Today - Today was broken: last year’s leaves, Dappled with this year’s new sun, And a wind to cancel the warmth And blow the leaves far away. There was nothing to grasp at - These papers, where is any good, Any willingness to be found? - No hint at all for being. And yet today was one where thought Reached to the end of thought, And did not cease to think. List today on the honour board; There was an emptiness, impatience, But hope for future’s side-glance.  
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Earth Star - It dwelt ages-long in the earth, A part of earth itself, a questing, Spreading net of filaments. One rainy spring it burst out Scattering its meaning through the world: Wherever there is soil without network, Without potential, there let it be - Earth is waiting for this, it will decide On its flourishing, or its failure. For now the fruiting body lies, A powdery husk, an open hand, Amongst the grey grass, thistle-stalks Bleached under the high, empty air. It is detached, broken to pieces By the world’s feet and weather. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Look at the Day - If the breeze never touches you Then you’ll wait a long time, Perhaps most of your long life. If you’re too busy or angry It’s no use - the living day, However it is, is not for you. But one time, you’ll look at the day, No half-stuff, but the very day Itself, and then you’ll look again. You’ll walk in the glory of the morning, Leaves all a-shiver in the wind, The morning not given for you. And find, that with the cold wind, That sun, you do belong - Sudden strength in knowledge.  
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Returning Here - Returning here after twenty years, I look about to see what has changed. I should have looked to see what has not - The place, myself, together. What can I say? I’m moved, Glad. Nothing has stayed in place. Another twenty years, and another And I, and this place, will not be. What should I say? Here I was happy... And sad, and am so again. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 Poem Title: Sad Heart - If the poem will not crystallise for you - A night when neither the Northern Nor the Southern Crowns could be seen - It may be that the dashes in the document Ascribed to you are too much In themselves... eager sad-heart. Butterflies wander in the mist, Yet flies are clattering on the ground. The path is clear, and every day Certainty weakens its grip. 
Author: John Leonard
Nationality: Australian
b. December 1965
  
 I am beginning to lose patience With my personal relations. They are not deep And they are not cheap. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To ask the hard question is simple, The simple act of the confused will. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse's flowers will not last; Nurses to their graves are gone, And the prams go rolling on. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Cold, impossible, ahead Lifts the mountain's lovely head Whose white waterfall could bless Travellers in their last distress.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Acts of injustice done Between the setting and the rising sun In history lie like bones, each one.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Lay your sleeping head, my love Lay your sleeping head, my love Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral; But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie: Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss, O show us History the operator, the Organiser, Time the refreshing river." And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life That shapes the individual belly and orders The private nocturnal terror: "Did you not found the city state of the sponge, "Raise the vast military empires of the shark And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton? Intervene. Descend as a dove or A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe; On that tableland scored by rivers, Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond To the medicine ad and the brochure of winter cruises Have become invading battalions; And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb. Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom As the ambulance and the sandbag; Our hours of friendship into a people's army. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love, The photographing of ravens; all the fun under Liberty's masterful shadow; To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician, The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome; To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers, The eager election of chairmen By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle. To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs, The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion; To-morrow the bicycle races Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The stars are dead. The animals will not look. We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed. 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 They never forgot That even the most dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems. But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs. The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers. Now he is scattered over a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountains start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Base words are uttered only by the base And can for such at once be understood; But noble platitudes - ah, there's a case Where the most careful scrutiny is needed To tell a voice that's genuinely good From one that's base but merely has succeeded. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Unendowed with wealth or pity, Little birds with scarlet legs Sitting on their speckled eggs, Eye each flu-infected city. Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, Silently and very fast. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A million eyes, a million boots in line, Without expression, waiting for a sign. Out of the air a voice without a face Proved by statistics that some cause was just In tones as dry and level as the place: No one was cheered and nothing was discussed. A crowd of ordinary decent folk Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke As three pale figures were led forth and bound To three posts driven upright in the ground. The mass and majesty of this world, all That carries weight and always weighs the same Lay in the hands of others; they were small And could not hope for help and no help came: What their foes like to do was done, their shame Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride And died as men before their bodies died. A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy: a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who'd never heard Of any world where promises were kept Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armorer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis of the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles Who would not live long. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Marriage is rarely bliss But, surely it would be worse As particles to pelt At thousands of miles per sec About a universe In which a lover's kiss Would either not be felt Or break the loved one's neck. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Thoughts of his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic. Written between 1965 and 1968. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We were always adroiter with objects than lives, and more facile at courage than kindness: from the moment the first flint was flaked this landing was merely a matter of time. But our selves, like Adam's, still don't fit us exactly, modern only in this - our lack of decorum. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Look, stranger, on this island now. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 What's the good of going to Wales? 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 We would rather be ruined than changed We would rather die in our dread Than climb the cross of the moment And let our illusions die.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another; they might also ask themselves how much poetry of any period they can honestly say that they understand. Published in The Listener, 30 June 1955 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In general, when reading a scholarly critic, one profits more from his quotations than from his comments. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 One cannot review a bad book without showing off. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 At first critics classified authors as Ancients, that is to say, Greek and Latin authors, and Moderns, that is to say, every post-Classical Author. Then they classified them by eras, the Augustans, the Victorians, etc., and now they classify them by decades, the writers of the '30's, '40's, etc. Very soon, it seems, they will be labeling authors, like automobiles, by the year. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In the course of many centuries a few laborsaving devices have been introduced into the mental kitchen - alcohol, coffee, tobacco, Benzedrine, etc. - but these are very crude, constantly breaking down, and liable to injure the cook. Literary composition in the twentieth century A.D. is pretty much what it was in the twentieth century B.C.: nearly everything has still to be done by hand. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The condition of mankind is, and always has been, so miserable and depraved that, if anyone were to say to the poet: "For God's sake stop singing and do something useful like putting on the kettle or fetching bandages," what just reason could he give for refusing? But nobody says this. The self-appointed unqualified nurse says: "You are to sing the patient a song which will make him believe that I, and I alone, can cure him. If you can't or won't, I shall confiscate your passport and send you to the mines." And the poor patient in his delirium cries: "Please sing me a song which will give me sweet dreams instead of nightmares. If you succeed, I will give you a penthouse in New York or a ranch in Arizona. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Without Art, we should have no notion of the sacred; Without Science, we should always worship false gods. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When I find myself in the company of scientists, I feel like a shabby curate who has strayed by mistake into a drawing room full of dukes. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish. This is bad for everyone; the majority lose all genuine taste of their own, and the minority become cultural snobs. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornadoes, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage. The poetic imagination is not at all a desirable quality in a statesman. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When I consider others I can easily believe that their bodies express their personalities and that the two are inseparable. But it is impossible for me not to feel that my body is other than I, that I inhabit it like a house, and that my face is a mask which, with or without my consent, conceals my real nature from others. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The image of myself which I try to create in my own mind in order that I may love myself is very different from the image which I try to create in the minds of others in order that they may love me. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Almost all of our relationships begin and most of them continue as forms of mutual exploitation, a mental or physical barter, to be terminated when one or both parties run out of goods. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To have a sense of sin means to feel guilty at there being an ethical choice to make, a guilt which, however "good" I may become, remains unchanged. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The law cannot forgive, for the law has not been wronged, only broken; only persons can be wronged. The law can pardon, but it can only pardon what it has the power to punish. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All wishes, whatever their apparent content, have the same and unvarying meaning: "I refuse to be what I am." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 All pity is self-pity. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In societies with fewer opportunities for amusement, it was also easier to tell a mere wish from a real desire. If, in order to hear some music, a man has to wait for six months and then walk twenty miles, it is easy to tell whether the words, "I should like to hear some music," mean what they appear to mean, or merely, "At this moment I should like to forget myself." When all he has to do is press a switch, it is more difficult. He may easily come to believe that wishes can come true. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 To some degree every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A vice in common can be the ground of a friendship but not a virtue in common. X and Y may be friends because they are both drunkards or womanizers but, if they are both sober and chaste, they are friends for some other reason. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Unfortunately for the modern dramatist, during the past century and a half the public realm has been less and less of a realm where human deeds are done, and more and more of a realm of mere human behavior. The contemporary dramatist has lost his natural subject. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 No opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Politics cannot be a science, because in politics theory and practice cannot be separated, and the sciences depend upon their separation. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The truly tragic kind of suffering is the kind produced and defiantly insisted upon by the hero himself so that, instead of making him better, it makes him worse and when he dies he is not reconciled to the law but defiant, that is, damned. Lear is not a tragic hero, Othello is. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The idea of a sacrificial victim is not new; but that it should be the victim who chooses to be sacrificed, and the sacrificers who deny that any sacrifice has been made, is very new. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Whatever the field under discussion, those who engage in debate must not only believe in each other's good faith, but also in their capacity to arrive at the truth. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The mystics themselves do not seem to have believed their physical and mental sufferings to be a sign of grace, but it is unfortunate that it is precisely physical manifestations which appeal most to the religiosity of the mob. A woman might spend twenty years nursing lepers without having any notice taken of her, but let her once exhibit the stigmata or live for long periods on nothing but the Host and water, and in no time the crowd will be clamoring for her beatification. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In the late Middle Ages there were, no doubt, many persons in monasteries and convents who had no business there and should have been out in the world earning an honest living, but today it may very well be that there are many persons trying to earn a living in the world and driven by failure into mental homes whose true home would be the cloister. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I said earlier that I do not believe an artist's life throws much light upon his works. I do believe, however, that, more often than most people realize, his works may throw light upon his life. An artist with certain imaginative ideas in his head may then involve himself in relationships which are congenial to them. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it. But it is unbecoming in an artist to talk about inspiration; that is the reader's business. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism. The virtue of patriotism has been extolled most loudly and publicly by nations that are in the process of conquering others, by the Roman, for example, in the first century B.C., the French in the 1790s, the English in the nineteenth century, and the Germans in the first half of the twentieth. To such people, love of one's country involves denying the right of others, of the Gauls, the Italians, the Indians, the Poles, to love theirs. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Young people, who are still uncertain of their identity, often try on a succession of masks in the hope of finding the one which suits them - the one, in fact, which is not a mask. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Most people are even less original in their dreaming than in their waking life; their dreams are more monotonous than their thoughts and oddly enough, more literary. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In all technologically "advanced" countries, fashion has replaced tradition, so that involuntary membership in a society can no longer provide a feeling of community. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 It is, for example, axiomatic that we should all think of ourselves as being more sensitive than other people because, when we are insensitive in our dealings with others, we cannot be aware of it at the time: conscious insensitivity is a self-contradiction. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 In any modern city, a great deal of our energy has to be expended in not seeing, not hearing, not smelling. An inhabitant of New York who possessed the sensory acuteness of an African Bushman would very soon go mad. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 One can only blaspheme if one believes. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The curious delusion that some families are older than others. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Normally, when one passes someone on the street who is in pain, one either tries to help him, or one simply looks the other way. With a photo there's no human decision; you're not there; you can't turn away; you simply gape. It's a form of voyeurism. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 It's frightfully important for a writer to be his age, not to be younger or older than he is. One might ask, "What should I write at the age of sixty-four," but never, "What should I write in 1940." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 A poet, qua poet, has only one political duty, namely, in his own writing to set an example of the correct use of his mother tongue, which is always being corrupted. When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I never write when I'm drunk. Why should one need aids? The Muse is a high-spirited girl who doesn't like to be brutally or coarsely wooed. And she doesn't like slavish devotion - then she lies. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Music is the best means we have of digesting time. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I don't think the mystical experience can be verbalized. When the ego disappears, so does power over language. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Minus times minus equals plus. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good." 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; 'I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work,' And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the dead, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenseless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.  
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 The way to read a fairy tale is to throw yourself in. 
Author: W. H. Auden
Nationality: American
b. 21 February 1907  - d. 29 September 1973
  
 Do not talk of the Khedas to me, mother. I belong to Ranjha and he belongs to me. And the Khedas dream idle dreams. Let the people say, "Heer is crazy; she has given herself to a cowherd." 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 The nights are long without my beloved. Since Ranjha became a jogi, I have scarcely been my old self; people everywhere call me crazy. My young flesh is all wrinkled, my bones are a creaking skeleton. I was too young to understand love; and now as the nights swell and merge into each other, I play host to that unkind guest - separation. 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 I have to go to Ranjha's hut, will someone go with me? I have begged many to accompany me, but I had to set out alone. The river is deep, and the shaky bridge creaks. I am tortured by my wounds, but Ranjha my beloved is the doctor who can cure them. Only my beloved can bring me comfort. 
Author: Shah Hussain
Nationality: Pakistani
b. December 1538  - d.  December 1599
  
 The wind that sighs before the dawn Chases the gloom of night, The curtains of the East are drawn, And suddenly - 't is light. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The love of the Right, tho' cast down, The hate of victorious Ill, All are sparks from the central fire of A boundless beneficent will. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound, Young voices sing; Wreathe every door with snow-white voices round, For lo! 't is Spring! Winter has passed with its sad funeral train, And Love revives again. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Toil is the law of life and its best fruit. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The victories of Right Are born of strife. There were no Day were there no Night, Nor, without dying, Life. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Call no faith false which e'er hath brought Relief to any laden life, Cessation to the pain of thought, Refreshment mid the dust of strife. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Rest springs from strife and dissonant chords beget Divinest harmonies. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 The passionate love of Right, The burning hate of Wrong. 
Author: Lewis Morris
Nationality: Welsh
b. 23 January 1833  - d. 12 November 1907
  
 Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Forever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And, when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between and bid us part? 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: 'Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves; Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.' 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence? 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 There studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Ships dim-discovered dropping from the clouds. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Sighed and looked unutterable things. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 The negligence of Nature wide and wild, Where, undisguised by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare! Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat Retired - 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 For loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorned adorned the most. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thulè, and th' Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides. 
Author: James Thomspn
Nationality: Scottish
b. 11 September 1700  - d. 27 August 1748
  
 Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 But maybe it's up in the hills under the leaves or in a ditch somewhere. Maybe it's never found. But what you find, whatever you find, is always only part of the missing, and writing is the way the poet finds out what it is he found. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 Wisdom is knowing when you can't be wise. 
Author: Paul Engle
Nationality: American
b. 12 October 1908  - d.  December 1991
  
 In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave to-day, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime. For Death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to free And fled away. Now over the grave abrupt and clear Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear The bugle sing: “Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them any more. Danger’s past; Now at last, Go to sleep!” There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this place of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band. St. Michael’s sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael’s blood runs. And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of buglenotes That softly say: “Farewell! Farewell! Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning-star. Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!” 
Author: Joyce Kilmer
Nationality: American
b. 06 December 1886  - d. 30 July 1918
  
 In that very street, at that same hour, In the bitter air and drifting sleet, Crouching in a doorway was a mother, With her children shuddering at her feet. She was silent – who would hear her pleading? Men and beasts were housed – but she must stay Houseless in the great and pitiless city, Till the dawning of the winter day.  
Author: Adelaide Ann Procter
Nationality: English
b. 30 October 1825  - d. 2 February 1864
  
 What is the flesh and blood compounded of But a few moments in the life of time? This prowling of the cells, litigious love, Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime. 
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Now remember courage, go to the door, Open it and see whether coiled on the bed Or cringing by the wall, a savage beast Maybe with golden hair, with deep eyes Like a bearded spider on a sunlit floor Will snarl - and man can never be alone.  
Author: Allen Tate
Nationality: American
b. 19 November 1899  - d. 09 February 1979
  
 Making the slow line dip and sway in its motion proceeding gravely into and out of the limelight is worth the endeavour, if you are given to word-games, which all of us are in one way or another, playing at words of love and the diction of dying, what we say being just as green as the world is. 
Author: Chris Wallace-Crabbe
Nationality: Australian
b. 06 May 1934
  
 As when the locality darkens, earth odours rise up and colour has bled away while the lit clouds yet sail sweetly over us inhabiting a daylight of their own.  
Author: Chris Wallace-Crabbe
Nationality: Australian
b. 06 May 1934
  
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light, ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 Go, forget me! why should sorrow, O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, and to-morrow, brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile, though I shall not be near thee; Sing, though I shall never hear thee. 
Author: Charles Wolfe
Nationality: Irish
b. 14 December 1791  - d. 21 February 1823
  
 When you're away, I'm restless, lonely, Wretched, bored, dejected; only here's the rub, my darling dear, I feel the same when you're near. 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 My soul is dark with stormy riot: Directly traced over to diet. 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 What a lucky thing the wheel was invented before the automobile; otherwise, can you imagine what awful screeching? 
Author: Samuel Hoffenstein
Nationality: American
b. 08 October 1890  - d. 06 October 1947
  
 I caught this morning morning’s minion, Kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 What I do is me: for that I came. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I say more, the just man justices; Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is - Christ - for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 It is a happy thing that there is no royal road to poetry. The world should know by this time that one cannot reach Parnassus except by flying thither. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 For I think it is the case with genius that it is not when quiescent so very much above mediocrity as the difference between the two might lead us to think, but that it has the power and privilege of rising from that level to a height utterly far from mediocrity: in other words that its greatness is that it can be so great. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I think that the trivialness of life is, and personally to each one, ought to be seen to be, done away with by the Incarnation. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I am surprised you should say fancy and aesthetic tastes have led me to my present state of mind: these would be better satisfied in the Church of England, for bad taste is always meeting one in the accessories of Catholicism. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I thought how sadly beauty of inscape was unknown and buried away from simple people and yet how near at hand it was if they had eyes to see it and it could be called out everywhere again. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 All the world is full of inscape and chance left free to act falls into an order as well as purpose. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 No doubt my poetry errs on the side of oddness. I hope in time to have a more balanced and Miltonic style. But as air, melody, is what strikes me most of all in music, and design in painting, so design, pattern, or what I am in the habit of calling inscape is what I above all aim at in poetry. Now it is the virtue of design, pattern, or inscape to be distinctive, and it is the vice of distinctiveness to become queer. This vice I cannot have escaped. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened, to any degree heightened and unlike itself, but not an obsolete one. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Take breath and read it with the ears, as I always wish to be read, and my verse becomes all right. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Our Lord Jesus Christ, my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 For myself I make no secret, I look forward with eager desire to seeing the matchless beauty of Christ’s body in the heavenly light. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Religion, you know, enters very deep; in reality it is the deepest impression I have in speaking to people, that they are or that they are not of my religion. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I hold with the old-fashioned criticism that Browning is not really a poet, that he has all the gifts but the one needful and the pearls without the string; rather one should say raw nuggets and rough diamonds. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman’s mind to be more like my own than any other man’s living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.  
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 By the by, if the English race had done nothing else, yet if they left the world the notion of a gentleman, they would have done a great service to mankind. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 You do not mean by mystery what a Catholic does. You mean an interesting uncertainty: the uncertainty ceasing, interest ceases also. But a Catholic by mystery means an incomprehensible certainty: without certainty, without formulation there is no interest; the clearer the formulation the greater the interest. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 It kills me to be time’s eunuch and never to beget. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 That is the great end of empires before God, to be Catholic and draw nations into their Catholicism. But our empire is less and less Christian as it grows. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 A great work by an Englishman is like a great battle won by England. It is an unfading bay tree. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 It seems then that it is not the excellence of any two things, or more, in themselves, but those two things as viewed by the light of each other, that makes beauty. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.  
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Thou mastering me God! giver of breath and bread; World’s strand, sway of the sea; Lord of living and dead; Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh, And after it almost unmade, what with dread, Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh? Over again I feel thy finger and find thee. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Hope had grown grey hairs, Hope had mourning on, Trenched with tears, carved with cares, Hope was twelve hours gone. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Wild air, world-mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair Girdles; goes home betwixt The fleeciest, frailest-fixed Snowflake; that’s fairly mixed With, riddles, and is rife In every least thing’s life. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I say that we are wound With mercy round and round As if with air. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 World-mothering air, air wild, Wound with thee, in thee isled, Fold home, fast fold thy child. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist - slack they may be - these last strands of man In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 That night, that year Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with my God! my God. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne'er hung there. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.  
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey. Rare patience roots in these, and, these away, Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day. We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills Of us we do bid God bend to him even so. And where is he who more and more distils Delicious kindness? - He is patient. Patience fills His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find Thirst 's all-in-all in all a world of wet. Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather - As skies Betweenpie mountains - lights a lovely mile. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Nature's Bonfire (That Nature Is A Heraclitean Fire) I am all at once what Christ is, ' since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, ' patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond. Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows ' flaunt forth, then chevy on an air- built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs ' they throng; they glitter in marches. Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, ' wherever an elm arches, Shivelights and shadowtackle in long ' lashes lace, lance, and pair. Delightfully the bright wind boisterous ' ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare Of yestertempest's creases; ' in pool and rut peel parches Squandering ooze to squeezed ' dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches Squadroned masks and manmarks ' treadmire toil there Footfretted in it. Million-fueled, ' nature's bonfire burns on. Nature's bonfire burns on. I am all at once what Christ is, ' since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, ' patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond. But quench her bonniest, dearest ' to her, her clearest-selved spark Man, how fast his firedint, ' his mark on mind, is gone! Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark Drowned. O pity and indig ' nation! Manshape, that shone Sheer off, disseveral, a star, ' death blots black out; nor mark Is any of him at all so stark But vastness blurs and time ' beats level. Enough! the Resurrection, A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, ' joyless days, dejection. Across my foundering deck shone A beacon, an eternal beam. ' Flesh fade, and mortal trash Fall to the residuary worm; ' world's wildfire, leave but ash: In a flash, at a trumpet crash, I am all at once what Christ is, ' since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, ' patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 When I compare myself, my being-myself, with anything else whatever, all things alike, all in the same degree, rebuff me with blank unlikeness. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I find myself both as man and as myself something more determined and distinctive, at pitch, more distinctive and higher pitched than anything else I see. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 I consider my selfbeing ... that taste of myself, of I and me above and in all things, which is more distinctive than the taste of ale or alum, more distinctive than the smell of walnutleaf or camphor, and is incommunicable by any means to another man. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 For human nature, being more highly pitched, selved, and distinctive than anything in the world, can have been developed, evolved, condensed, from the vastness of the world not anyhow or by the working of common powers but only by one of finer or higher pitch and determination than itself. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 He is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should. So then, my brethren, live. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 Any day, any minute we bless God for our being or for anything, for food, for sunlight, we do and are what we were meant for, made for - things that give and mean to give God glory. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 It is not only prayer that gives God glory but work. Smiting on an anvil, sawing a beam, whitewashing a wall, driving horses, sweeping, scouring, everything gives God some glory if being in his grace you do it as your duty. 
Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nationality: English
b. 28 July 1844  - d. 08 June 1889
  
 We hear the wail of the remorseful winds In their strange penance. And this wretched orb Knows not the taste of rest; a maniac world, Homeless and sobbing through the deep she goes.  
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night; The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.  
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 A poem round and perfect as a star. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Some books are drenchèd sands On which a great soul’s wealth lies all in heaps, Like a wrecked argosy. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 The saddest thing that befalls a soul Is when it loses faith in God and woman. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet; One little hour! And then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist and cloud and foam, To meet no more. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Each time we love, We turn a nearer and a broader mark To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, And she hides it well. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 Everything is sweetened by risk. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place to-day, it is vain to seek it there to-morrow. You can not lay a trap for it. 
Author: Alexander Smith
Nationality: Scottish
b. 31 December 1830  - d. 5 January 1867
  
 I have one of two choices – stay in the post office and go crazy, or stay out here and play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 I never met another man I'd rather be. And even if that's a delusion, it's a lucky one. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 I wasn't a misanthrope and I wasn't a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 I didn't have any friends at school, didn't want any. I felt better being alone. I sat on a bench and watched the others play and they looked foolish to me. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Yes Yes when God created love he didn't help most when God created dogs He didn't help dogs when God created plants that was average when God created hate we had a standard utility when God created me He created me when God created the monkey He was asleep when He created the giraffe He was drunk when He created narcotics He was high and when He created suicide He was low when He created you lying in bed He knew what He was doing He was drunk and He was high and He created the mountains and the sea and fire at the same time He made some mistakes but when He created you lying in bed He came all over His Blessed Universe. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Some moments are nice, Some are nicer, Some are even worth writing about. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 And it seems people should not build houses anymore it seems people should stop working and sit in small rooms on second floors under electric lights without shades; it seems there is a lot to forget and a lot not to do and in drugstores, markets, bars, the people are tired, they do not want to move, and I stand there at night and look through this house and the house does not want to be built. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 La mayoría de la muerte de la gente es una farsa, no queda en ellos nada que pueda morir. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 The area dividing the brain and the soul Is affected in many ways by experience - Some lose all mind and become soul: insane. Some lose all soul and become mind: intellectual. Some lose both and become: accepted. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 that your power of command with simple language was one of the magnificent things of our century.  
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Why do we embroider everything we say with special emphasis when all we really need to do is simply say what needs to he said? Of course the fact is that there is very little that needs to be said. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Tinha o cartão Gold Visa. Estava vivo. Talvez. Começava até a me sentir como Nick Belane. Cantalorei um trechinho de Coats. O Inferno era o que a gente fazia dele. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 It's 4:30 in the morning, it's always 4:30 in the morning. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine the impossibility of being human. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Shakespeare a plagiarist Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness the impossibility the impossibility Nietzsche gone totally mad the impossibility of being human all too human this breathing in and out out and in these punks these cowards these champions these mad dogs of glory moving this little bit of light toward us impossibly. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 The difference between a brave man and a coward is a coward thinks twice before jumping in the cage with a lion. The brave man doesn't know what a lion is. He just thinks he does. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and eight times out of nine I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 My ambition is handicapped by my laziness. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 "Baby," I said. "I'm a genius but nobody knows it but me." 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 That was all a man needed: hope. It was a lack of hope that discouraged a man. I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so? 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or love. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Many a good man has been put under the bridge by a woman. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they'll spit on you. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born. The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of my life, I thought. God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their mouths and their armpits. They shit and they chattered and they were dull as horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn't even get a job as a dishwasher. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Now, the original Beats, as much as they were knocked, had the Idea. But they were flanked and overwhelmed by fakes, guys with nicely clipped beards, lonely-hearts looking for free ass, limelighters, rhyming poets, homosexuals, bums, sightseers—the same thing that killed the Village. Art can't operate in Crowds. Art does not belong at parties, nor does it belong at Inauguration Speeches."  
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Censorship exists due to the fact that our educational institutions don't educate and the Church is still around dragging its feet one thousand years behind the times. False morality is the disease of a people who are told what to think and how to act from an early beginning; few ever use their own thought processes to question what they are taught. Talk about the living dead, they crawl like flies upon this turd of an earth. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die."  
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 If I'm an ass, I should say so. If I don't, somebody else will. If I say it first, that disarms them. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 I think that everything should be made available to everybody, and I mean LSD, cocaine, codeine, grass, opium, the works. Nothing on earth available to any man should be confiscated and made unlawful by other men in more seemingly powerful and advantageous positions. More often than not Democratic Law works to the advantage of the few even though the many have voted; this, of course, is because the few have told them how to vote. I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age. If I want to kill myself I feel that should be my business. If I go out and hold up gas stations at night to pay for my supply it is because the law inflates a very cheap thing into an escalated war against my nerves and my soul. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 I found out that Hollywood is more crooked, dumber, crueler, stupider than all the books I've read about it. They didn't go deeply enough into how it lacks art, and soul, and heart - how it's really a piece of crap. There are too many hands directing, there're too many fingers in the pot, and they're all kind of ignorant about what they're doing. They're greedy, and they're vicious. So you don't get much of a movie. 
Author: Charles Bukowski
Nationality: American
b. 16 August 1920  - d. 09 March 1994
  
 Each minute bursts in the burning room, The great globe reels in the solar fire, Spinning the trivial and unique away. (How all things flash! How all things flare!) What am I now that I was then? May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 I am my father's father, You are your children's guilt. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 In history's pity and terror The child is Aeneas again; 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Troy is in the nursery, The rocking horse is on fire. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Child labor! The child must carry His fathers on his back. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 A car coughed, starting. Morning softly Melting the air, lifted the half-covered chair From underseas, kindled the looking-glass, Distinguished the dresser and the white wall. The bird called tentatively, whistled, called, Bubbled and whistled, so! Perplexed, still wet With sleep, affectionate, hungry and cold. So, so, O son of man, the ignorant night, the travail Of early morning, the mystery of the beginning Again and again, while history is unforgiven. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Whence, if ever, shall come the actuality Of a voice speaking the mind's knowing, The sunlight bright on the green windowshade, And the self articulate, affectionate, and flowing, Ease, warmth, light, the utter showing, When in the white bed all things are made. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 But this, this which we say before we’re sorry, This which we live behind our unseen faces, Is neither dream, nor childhood, neither Myth, nor landscape, final, nor finished, For we are incomplete and know no future, And we are howling or dancing out our souls In beating syllables before the curtain: We are Shakespearean, we are strangers. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 That inescapable animal walks with me, Has followed me since the black womb held, Moves where I move, distorting my gesture, A caricature, a swollen shadow, A stupid clown of the spirit's motive, Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness, The secret life of belly and bone. 
Author: Delmore Schwartz
Nationality: American
b. 08 December 1913  - d. 11 July 1966
  
 Loops of red gauze, the music swoopsdown the glass passage in the wall. Black, rolling hats on a gold rack:"The moon is fallen? Not at all. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Lightning's only marble. Frightening? Only the moon's white marble hair. Stammering thunder's wicked hammer! Night's pasodoble in the air. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Tell me about it." "I'm in hell,I've lost my love, and my religion." "So has your friend, but then, you know the Holy Ghost's a carrier pigeon. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 He'll fly to you, he flew to me,flew back again, Faith in his beak. He also brought my love to tea.We laughed until we couldn't speak." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Bring more chartreuse! You've everything, I've nothing, and I hate the storm. Fate bids me go." "It isn't late.Goya's musicians still perform." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Pains of your youth, and Spanish rains don't last, and hearts heal in the South. I am betrayed. So stop this lie! These fountains merely herald drouth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Pains of your youth, and Spanish rainsdon't last, and hearts heal in the South. I am betrayed. So stop this lie!These fountains merely herald drouth." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Dry death will follow quick, and I will burn, my tears will turn to steam. I'll burst in bitter fire . . . you sigh? Thin sighing, like a vulture's scream!" 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 "Please write your book, and do not tease your pleasant present with your past. But now, enough. They're going to shut."The ruby tango dies at last." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Loud, flying flowers, odours proud, die in the mirrors as they go. Don Quintin's children have gone on. Don Quintin el Amargao. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The conversation of a bell striking across the afternoon this is what we remember of our early youth. A torch in the bedclothes is soon put out by a morning that comes before its time closing the book before the end of the page. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Charon rings his doorbell all day long, it seems. The ceaseless anger of a bell running across a foggy teatime this is what we remember of our early youth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Amo. Amas. Amat. Does he really? How wonderful. A kiss translated from the Greek we received it in the bootroom, and we prayed, prayed until our heads were cold with a pure sweat, a simple dew, and ignorant. Not knowing the tomb when it touched us, not seeingthe small, immediate burial of a child taking this first warning as a gift, which was only the last tap of an old woodpecker. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Across the harsh field the bell comes like a stonekilling him who was telling us our first story. He, the lustful elder, the dead woodpecker, is silent, so distressed to be left alone again by youth, to be so abandoned perched on the fence alone, in a pair of gold spectacles with a few red feathers round a broken beak. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 In an aseptic chapel, singing for Sunday supper our voices fail at the high note, the most holy. In the chapel sits the false eagle, the convertarmoured in Christian brass, sprawling in a lean nest of Easter lilies. Here, the only eagle is brass and the saints have long since expelled the serpent leaving the lilies, virgins in a vase, open in death flowers of white soap, washed well, like the dead starched, like the white cowls of the dead, waxed, smelling of an immortal Sunday. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 We rise, blind with something that resembled sleep, a brief prostration blind with torch, dream, or book, a few minutes of these. A little horizontal straining, a burden born upon the back. Rise, and shudder forward to split the ice, pour a libation crush the sponge, and scrub the teeth, in between a sneeze. A little vertical straining, quotidian harness, assumption of an upright rack. We rise, blind. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Between the first walls of the day my friend, it is so difficult to wait for youth so hard to become young. To be young only in years is to be old and mad to wear a false beard, to be a small green peach bearded with snow its back against the wall, in a February without an end. We, being too young, are old, and wait at the bottom of a winter garden, for the sun and, when the sun comes, we find no strength to growbeing green peaches, small and cold but only the exchange of light for darkness of nothing for nothing only the illumination of a familiar disaster unseen at night, but long learned by heart. To hide tears in other tears for no reason, save that early youth is madness to hide laughter in counterfeit laughter this is what we know of our early youth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 To smell autumn is to be seventeen. C'est un amateuril est toujours l'élève. I fall with each wicked leaf seventeen. Ego is triumphant in this lowest timeego in the evening season the evening that is too sweet, too rich. To-day there is only a banjo in tearsto-day it is yesterday. [7] To-morrow, spring will come, a small unicorn bringing a birthday but I cannot be born again I cannot give birth to myself again. Instead, I, an inferior Werther, have permitted the world to bear me a bastard an old alien baby, and dead. The narrow hips of my soulshall engender me nothing. I am a silly Hamlet. Even now I should be naked, leaning against the lightholding myself, a newborn baby, in my arms. I should be standing in daylight, with the serpent and the eaglesitting in consort upon a burning bush, my head. Instead, my bones are a basket of silly sorrows.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Under the sailing cedar tree, in a heavy August the elders sat on the lawn, eating a little tea. The sun was in the silver, and the blue cuckoo, the bird Ophelia spoke her pure word, down in the field spoke and spoke again, words of virginal madness. Mother dwindled towards the vegetables and grew back to us again, leaning through the afternoon a daisy on a tide, a bottle of milk in a green afternoon. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 But, as dirt gets between the teeth, and sweat creeps between the piano keysworms into everyone, nails into a cross so Mars, the loud newspaper boy, rode across our roses and trampled our teacups into the lawn. No storm scene destroyed our pastoral symphony, no grand tempest, but instead as dirt gets into the teeth, the newspaper got in at the garden gate and we were all filled with hate. It wasn't for want of washing, of waiting and watching ... ah, no we were always awfully careful, even at Oddenino. Black dirt, white dirt, all on a printed page, we didn't believe you because of Cambridge, Cornwall, vows in a punt because we were being young so beautifully. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Mother returned from the vegetables, on the run through the ruins of the minute sat on a garden chair, and thrust her roots down among the daisies in search of an older strength. Father cursed, and Ophelia fell from the bough snapping a Flanders poppy where she fell. Father's age, too old, made itself into a monument beside Mother, an evening monument, and the eyelids were a little weary. We went. We left by the last summer train, never again. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The Thames trembled in its bed, and Big Ben boomed, the Abbey crouched like a beast, growling "All my boys are doomed!" Straw hats, as hot as butterflies, like butterflies rose on the roar that met the long, grey princes at the Brandenburger Tor. "Splendid, splendid" cried Burlington Bertie, all the knuts were so excited". It doesn't matter now, having empty pockets" too excited to think of the empty eye-sockets.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Father and Mother stood at home, in the mortal sunrise that shook on the horizon and refused to move. They stood, dumb gardeners in a forsaken greenhouse England, my green house, England, my green thought in my green shade, yellow sand, emerald isle, silver sea, hearts of oak white walls, rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, never waives the rules, but the thunder's got into the milk, my darling, and the short-horn's got T. B., and what, we soon began to say, is going to become of me? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Explosion. There is no air. Only a blue vacuum, the hollow flame of a blow-lampa blue, droning flame. An open mouth a blue, toothless mouth, kissing the young face, and droning. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 So many faces and so many nails Faces in a huge, winter window, nails in a nice little box. The young man's being crucified. Such a cheerful cross, all painted with wild flowers by a Lady, the colours go so well with the blood flat ferns of blood, thin and hard as wax. Spider shapes of blood, crawling behind each hand, and behind the locked feet. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What did he do to you, Lady? He would not love. What shall we do to him, Lady? Crucify him. Crucify him. Vast winter faces fill the palace places. White, whistling March puts pretty sparks of jumping light on each nail's head. The army and the king sit in a rich ring hermaphrodites, hostesses, and pious ghosts watching him jerk, and jerk. He's not yet dead. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Seated upon genuine antiques, we've a good view. The motor cars come curving up like a lot of cats, while the young man struggles on his tree. Silly struggles. Snuggle close to me. Lady! now mark my words, seriously God made the world that this should be.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Lady, come rest on the red cushion of my heart and watch the small spider microphone hang in his face, spinning a world's web to catch a public of flies. Each little cough shall be heard by millions. With blood in his voice, balanced upon infinity he made his bed, he made his choice, nails are now his trinity.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Between the shadows of the vine bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. But all my sins return. Alone I pace the graveyard of myselves. Oh for an old, night wood!I would lie down upon a bank, and watch the stars bathe in the slowly folding stream a little stream, caught in its own cold curtains the permanent curtains of my final sadness. All those young ghosts that were me, stretched around half in the ground, heads propt in moss, and wreathed with shining strings of dew, my own old tears. I would not look at them, having forgiven having forgotten all the wrongs I've done and I've been done. Only your red flower shakes on the opposite bank like a cup of blood. Where is this stream, the crystal of my sadnessthe luminous, fallen statue of despair? The stream, the purest portrait of my madness and the ruby blossom, above all my dead, burning the deep, dark air? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Bones, bones, bones, bones. Nothing but gristle, and a shower of bones a storm of stones, and little pieces of blood rolling down a face in the morning. Hiding in a restaurant, let me turn to recollections of what must have been my youth. The buttercups were boiling in the park le duc se promène avec son passé. Lama, lama, sabacthani. The grand Lama, my boy, lives in Thibet. A screw of brown paper blown into a corner of the monastery throne. Lamas, my son live high in Thibet, the duke lives in his enormous mansion and is our very kind landlord. The future frightens me, my boy, because I am old, and was badly educated. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 All men are cormorants, all the day all day's a dream, so choose your eyes carefully, pull them out when it's time. Choose some more. There is no thing-in-itself. So, if you will, you may see des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour... ivre d'amour. Then, father, I want a body and a whole soul, a whole heart, and a whole head to crowd itself against my body. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Boy, you can't choose those eyes. It may come. But instead, you'll often find another boy another girl, and they'll be twisted on the black ribs of one stone, on the angry grids of one minute. Oh, my God, my boy, be warned of me that you must see under a little red sun like a hole in a dog boys and girls served on a hot plate of tears. Oh bones bones and boys and girlsearly flesh that began as a vase of light, tied with a sash of grass in a lap of wild leaves, set upon fur. All this stolen, sat upon, and scraped into hollow mud, and wincing wind sour as a wincing, winter wind! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Winter garden, Tiergarten, I went to Berlin when I was young and I saw women made of knives and forks, and boys in clothes of snow, and I confirmed both. That was one virtue. Because, once, I was like that. I hated missing anything, and that's a sort of virtue. "Yes"-"Yes," that was my motto, whereas "Always Merry and Bright" is still the motto of my cronies. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I'm your Daddy, and I done me best (which is more than I'll do, dear Daddy) And there was, my boy, an April terrace, a late April terrace over a loving curve o' the Rhine a curve like that what old Venus must 'ave 'ad, blesser. I mean the reel old Venus.There was the terrace and the table and between the terrace and the table, I. I was Heidelberg, and Henley - poet - and Sargent, too and an Irving hero, with my hothouse moustache . . . all this. I was your tragic papa, bedight, rather tight, all right and Lili was there, who grew in Bingen, a sprig of groundsel ready, each gloaming, for me, the yellow canary out of the Yellow Book. Though I really was a Henley youth, of course, both Henleys and thought Wilde a beast, though . . sorry, too . . of course. Well, she came upon the terrace, a rising milk fountain a rock garden, a waltz, my Lili and there was a grave sunset floating in the hock like a strawberry. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The evening was Schiller, whispering. Mamma Rhine with the dear barges in her stomach, and each cargo one century of very serious thought. Well, we devoured our dinner, boy, and kissed the moon. It became healed, like a sensible girl. Cronies... awfully decent... nothing unhealthy... Well... but, choose your eyes, for God's sake, my dear boy in spite of the fact I lost the fight... fought at Arques, Crillon, and you were . . . where was I? Don't pay any attention. I lost. You win. Choose your eyes. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Father... I want a body, and a whole soul, a whole heart, and a whole head to crowd between my sins, my body, myself. Good gracious, what on earth's the good . . . eh? And now there's no terrace, no trace. All the flights of all the terraces (the flight of the duchesses) have crumbled into the Express Dairy Co. Ltd. I think since I did buy this mist of mimosa I'll have another dish of Bulgarian Lactic Milk. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Never mind, Daddy, never mind. Oh, you can't understand time, boy so you can't understand me, boy. Under this fringe of withered tears my moustache is an old flag hung in an old barrack riddled so long ago with red hot mouths (rags in the Escorial fidget in the draught) I was like the hero in "Smoke" once, on the clouded terrace fruits, and the "old guard," gods and medals and trophies, épergnes ranged upon the sunset's table by Youth's butler, God. The coloured uniforms of Goethe's cavalry, the serious sunset. Now, I am broken on the wheels of a small table and a small table between a waitress and a wheezy sin. My life's a wilderness of ancient lace frozen as wee and brittle as your mother's fingers frozen by time's ice, cracked at a kiss. My life is a quadrille of shadows, with one extraordinary shadow containing the prophecy of a stone skull with a roll of black dust on its upper lip. No drum and no tropics, no Lili, and no trophies, I am at the end. Now... wear wool, and buy a new pair of eyes every day, my dear boy. Father... I want... 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Across each Rhodes, beside each sea the maddened statue of maternity. The two smooth moons that are her eyesare not allowed to show surprise. She is the pelican that broke her breast to feed the treason in her nest. O red, returning tide! She was once a bride. Blown blind, with huge, sad hands blown hollow she leans, she leans by the salt, sombre shore. A silent stone beside a silent harbour she waits, she waits, nor ever knows them more. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The sound of England from abroad the echo of our parents' wedding march reaches us. Like a gramophone in the next house we hear our father singing in the drawing room, the past. Beside a hot and silent sea, we listen to the noises of the past. With mosquitoes for our foreign rain dropping in long ropes out of these blue clouds, a rope of mosquitoes meets the sea, and spreads out like treacle pouring upon the floor. A sigh, and the marble day slides away. The echo of London, London's country, comes between the coffee and the smile (sing, cicada, shine, phosphorous) The slow-travelling echo has arrived. A manly voice. A marriage bell.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is a shadow where a man sometimes sings. A shadow the shape of a tear. O sun, your help! The shape of a phallus. The shape of a heart. Through the hole in my soul I watch him. It has made the only hole in my soul. Brothers, sisters, do not shine so bright. Brothers and sisters, animals, fathers and mothers, too, tell me your wicked secret, for he cannot live. Giant friends, and dancing relations, you have eaten meI have been your house. Tell me your secret. Tell him, the ignorant singer, how one is able to live. Teach him to dance like you, giant friends, dancing fathers, you, my sister, who hold in your hands a dancing bird, you, my brother, who hold your wife in your arms like a bouquet of blood Tell me! Tell me! For he cannot live! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What is this time when the sun stops and stands on our little mountain like a street lamp? A light, white ball that stops at the height of its flight a frozen game over violet, winter water.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 In the middle of our beginning there is a temporary death. I see a strange Mediterranean made of a variety of violets I have never seen before. Sown by the moon, perhaps. All is gone from me this morning save life itself.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 My hottest tearis one with the frozen stream my purest laughter shall reappear in the peacock's scream.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 If this should last, good-bye, my friends. There is only myself left, and that is the equivalent of nothing. When I was with you I was many. The wind has become still, has become a large, new flower, made of air. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is only the world itself left the world that was in the world. There is only myself left myself that was in myself. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Wait, you whom I love, if you will until the sunset picks the last rose, slowly, and goes It will leave, now, only black and white and I shall be the stranger on this rock. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 There is this transparent time when the world stops and it is then, only, that I am. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Branch that flew on the hill this morning spire of pity, rest in this cold glass. Branch, fold your wild hands, and pray for me I am twenty four. Twenty four, and purity still lies before.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The light of lemons, a child's light. Open the history book in the silent north and it shines like a child. And yet I see each bough's a finger scratching the thin wind's skineach finger has a nail, each knot of fingers holds a small knife I used to know. Ah, the war in the south is ever hateful the islands of light in the sky, travelling fast and for me, whose big head's always cracked with thirst my English house is a sweet glass of water. But must I always remember my soldier childhood the knives in the trees? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Among wagging leaves, green pots and red I wrote you a letter when I was dead.To-day our tears are telegrams. The rain on the wires is made of tears. Look at these drops again. How could I speak or eat alone in the south? It takes four lips to make a mouth. During a year's fear I heard a voice say "Cease to pray, and on a last Friday at sunrise, stand at the white mouth of the sea up to your cold loins in water and light, and look for me. I am the thing, the meaning, and the prize that stands within the balls of your dumb eyes. Come, when I fit the sun's ring on the day's hand, come at sunrise." 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Summer and winter came together.Statues of summer stood along the morning and walked across the sea with hot, white feet. Light poured from them upon the ships and flowers till all the ships were flowers, and blinding flowers the fleet. From the extreme birth-pain at the sea's electric lips whence the Guardian Angel came, to the clouds of ice the blessing statues stretched. As we entered the sky, the Muse in blowing fire flew murmuring by, towards the sacrifice.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 As we left summer, our two isles took flight to new, blue stations high above the sea as 'twixt vast, chanting statues we four rose the islands rose on the wind, and smiled at the sight. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 It was to be all, all, all in a single day all summer, morning, and all winter, noon all love to love, all pain to love away from the white hot sun, all love, to the cold white moon. So love, which had broken its golden nests on the gold sea floor and burst into ships and flowers by the soft sea shore met us upon the mountain. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 It seemed the sun spun round the place and rose and set at our hearts' pace yet, springing from each other's mouths love left time instantly, and won the race. From side to side, the swinging seasons flow the green May valley flashes into snowwhile we, firm founded on each other's mouths form the world's centre, to love's centre go. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Those misers' bags, our breasts, were first undone so did our gold each to the other runthen all our blood ran to each other's mouths. Can two be two, when two have thus been one? O branching blood, O twin red tree! You have so kissed, and mixed with me with blood for food, and wine for bed our heart-shaped root on wine was fed with rock for clock, for leaves the snow how can we wither, or the woodman know? What can we do but to new glories grow? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The cross was made, the bread was laid upon the bleeding stone the cross was mine, the right was mine to spurn the cross, alone. The moment nears, the heart appears the mountain sings and turns our two heads change to one, a strange and blesséd thing, that burns. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 What are the stars, poor lonely lights that hang their cold, chaste chains across the nights? They wink for tears, who only can aspire to fuse themselves, as we have done, into one star, one fire. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I am so proud of my rebellious phoenix he rises, and his wings are blinding gongs. Over our small, cold London, our dead mother pour the grey flowers of his ash. Above them I hear huge, solar songs. I cry good-bye to my free phoenix with a sandy throat, and my heart is bared. But I am a poet, and I can make wings, I shall make wings and though you have flown alone to roost on the sun to-morrow the sun's nest shall be shared. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The fire rolls in the coal the coal screams with fire. Sick winter listens on the outer wall, shut out. Winter is wounded, her nightgown of tall fogs is striped with cold white blood, she is without fire. But small spring is shut out, remember,also, the wife and the mother, summer and autumn together. The coal it flies and falls red and red, the spitting pleasure the swiftest pleasure. And what does this pleasure think of thought? for it is fire. Of pain? for it is pleasure. Of time? for it is to-day. Of love? for it is fastest fire, and th'expense of spirit and immediate pleasure. Fire. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 You will grow no pansy in the loud coal no pansy grows where the coal falls, fighting. The grate is a body burning, but where's the pansy that lifts a long, black song in the breaking pleasure of fire? The coal flies, the coal dies there is no earth in that bed. You will have to come back to earth. With only a white sheet twisting, how how can you grow black pansies in a winding sheet? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I love the day, the yellow phoenix, but I love the terrible night. I have two loves, and one is the day, the peace, the brother-lover, the phoenixhe is covered with folding veils of silent fire he sits and swells within a scroll of strong, harmless fire that can fill the world, and that feeds me, so that I am the world. This is the day, the gold food, my truth. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I have two loves, and one is the terrible night the cannibal carnation, the soft storm beautiful, blind and black, invisible, alive and dead the carnation face, the lullaby, the kindest poison, the prison. Oh loud, loud is the night, the flower made of mouths louder than the day, louder than my heart. The sun falls, and at once there swings up from the ground, in at the window the night, the drooping thunder, the carnation. It is a burst flower, its blood has burst it, the petals are waving fans of soft blood. It is the mounting night. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I will never give up asking, where are the days? Still the hero dwindles upon the marble, chained with bones. Where is the headland, where are the larger clouds? Where is the place where there are men and women? We have been insulted by all islands, all voices and times. Yet I shall ask always, when will the lovers come, where are the days? 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Believe in the body in the landscape! The wind on the rock is a flowing flower. A gun fires on the mountain, the great sound flies, like another world, over my hollow past. The flowers flow across the rock. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The figure stands. A cross, a brown star in the scaffolding of the half built house. The heart. The sun bounds out of the mountain while the gun fires again and again. It is the spring. The gun fires. And a new sun whistles straight up into the centre of the skyto hang and throb and flash and shudder. White flowers and animals pour across the rocks. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The figure stands between the fingers of the coming heartthe slim beams of the heart, the veins the scaffolding of the house. The heart. Legs wide, and arms wide. The widest light. The man, the spreading angel. Cross. Star. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 The worlds are one. It is the spring. The landscapes are one. The mountain is all the mountains. The stream has swept all the world's water into one. The one rock rises. The wind lies shining on the rock.  
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 Stand, figure! Stand upon the future, while the past and the present drop, nails from your high hands and feet. Stand, figure, and live, and live! While the future swings and blazes upon the only landscape. The new sun roars above. It is all the birds. Stand, figure! All the flowers burst and roll upon the rocks. It is the end. The heart is building. It is the beginning. Stand, figure, brown star, in the heart! 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 All a large black summer's death dies in this one moment (this nought) one afternoon. The sky, pearl in the shut shell, leans, sick asleep down the slum to the slum. The rain's chains, without one sound sung thin still chains, hang, hardly seen, locking London unlit. Tearless, I prepare the leap up, newest, longest, most far I crouch, one, struck, windless, fireless, heavy, heavy the wound hoping not, speaking not, I knot the nameless muscle. O Life! bend down, bend my bow, send my arrow high, now, not low, below. I am my arrow. I have thick hearts to kill, that have killed me. Yet, I am. I, still, am. Hurl me hard, high, and I will kill, and live, and still give life, O Life. 
Author: Brian Howard
Nationality: English
b. 13 March 1905  - d. 15 January 1958
  
 I stood beside his sepulchre whose fame, Hurled over Europe once on bolt and blast, Now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast Glow in the sunset flushed with glorious flame. Has Nature marred his mould? Can Art acclaim No hero now, no man with whom men side As with their hearts' high needs personified? There are will say, One such our lips could name; Columbia gave him birth. Him Genius most Gifted to rule. Against the world's great man Lift their low calumny and sneering cries The Pharisaic multitude, the host Of piddling slanderers whose little eyes Know not what greatness is and never can.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 All that's not love is the dearth of my days, The leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit, The temple in times without prayer, without praise, The altar unset and the candle unlit. Let me survive not the lovable sway Of early desire, nor see when it goes The courts of Life's abbey in ivied decay, Whence sometime sweet anthems and incense arose.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Stretched on a sunny bank he lay at rest, Ferns at his elbow, lilies round his knees, With sweet flesh patterned where the cool turf pressed, Flowerlike crept o'er with emerald aphides. Single he couched there, to his circling flocks Piping at times some happy shepherd's tune, Nude, with the warm wind in his golden locks, And arched with the blue Asian afternoon. Past him, gorse-purpled, to the distant coast Rolled the clear foothills. There his white-walled town, There, a blue band, the placid Euxine lay. Beyond, on fields of azure light embossed He watched from noon till dewy eve came down The summer clouds pile up and fade away  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade, Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of horizons untravelled, unscanned. Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invade Broceliande. Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight disband, Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted in solemn parade, Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the valleys of Fairyland - Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the horn of a huntsman strayed, Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage fitfully fanned, Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle, disturbed and affrayed: Broceliande - Broceliande - Broceliande. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 The rooks aclamor when one enters here Startle the empty towers far overhead; Through gaping walls the summer fields appear, Green, tan, or, poppy-mingled, tinged with red. The courts where revel rang deep grass and moss Cover, and tangled vines have overgrown The gate where banners blazoned with a cross Rolled forth to toss round Tyre and Ascalon. Decay consumes it. The old causes fade. And fretting for the contest many a heart Waits their Tyrtaeus to chant on the new. Oh, pass him by who, in this haunted shade Musing enthralled, has only this much art, To love the things the birds and flowers love too.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Over the radiant ridges borne out on the offshore wind, I have sailed as a butterfly sails whose priming wings unfurled Leave the familiar gardens and visited fields behind To follow a cloud in the east rose-flushed on the rim of the world. I have strayed from the trodden highway for walking with upturned eyes On the way of the wind in the treetops, and the drift of the tinted rack. For the will to be losing no wonder of sunny or starlit skies I have chosen the sod for my pillow and a threadbare coat for my back. Evening of ample horizons, opaline, delicate, pure, Shadow of clouds on green valleys, trailed over meadows and trees, Cities of ardent adventure where the harvests of Joy mature, Forests whose murmuring voices are amorous prophecies, World of romance and profusion, still round my journey spread The glamours, the glints, the enthralments, the nurture of one whose feet From hours unblessed by beauty nor lighted by love have fled As the shade of the tomb on his pathway and the scent of the winding-sheet. I never could rest from roving nor put from my heart this need To be seeing how lovably Nature in flower and face hath wrought, In flower and meadow and mountain and heaven where the white clouds breed And the cunning of silken meshes where the heart's desire lies caught. Over the azure expanses, on the offshore breezes borne, I have sailed as a butterfly sails, nor recked where the impulse led, Sufficed with the sunshine and freedom, the warmth and the summer morn, The infinite glory surrounding, the infinite blue ahead. 
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 The lad I was I longer now Nor am nor shall be evermore. Spring's lovely blossoms from my brow Have shed their petals on the floor. Thou, Love, hast been my lord, thy shrine Above all gods' best served by me. Dear Love, could life again be mine How bettered should that service be!  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 At dusk, when lowlands where dark waters glide Robe in gray mist, and through the greening hills The hoot-owl calls his mate, and whippoorwills Clamor from every copse and orchard-side, I watched the red star rising in the East, And while his fellows of the flaming sign From prisoning daylight more and more released, Lift their pale lamps, and, climbing higher, higher, Out of their locks the waters of the Line Shaking in clouds of phosphorescent fire, Rose in the splendor of their curving flight, Their dolphin leap across the austral night, From windows southward opening on the sea What eyes, I wondered, might be watching, too, Orbed in some blossom-laden balcony. Where, from the garden to the rail above, As though a lover's greeting to his love Should borrow body and form and hue And tower in torrents of floral flame, The crimson bougainvillea grew, What starlit brow uplifted to the same Majestic regress of the summering sky, What ultimate thing - hushed, holy, throned as high Above the currents that tarnish and profane As silver summits are whose pure repose No curious eyes disclose Nor any footfalls stain, But round their beauty on azure evenings Only the oreads go on gauzy wings, Only the oreads troop with dance and song And airy beings in rainbow mists who throng Out of those wonderful worlds that lie afar Betwixt the outmost cloud and the nearest star.  
Author: Alan Seeger
Nationality: American
b. 22 June 1888  - d. 04 September 1916
  
 Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. 
Author: Maya Angelou
Nationality: American
b. 4 April 1928
  




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