The life we’re given is on a thread, so wear it well.

Cheapen words and they’ll cheapen you

Some who grow dull religious straight commenceAnd gain in morals what they lose in sense.

Yes You Are!Like the Blossoming rose,Like the Rays of hope.Like a deer in the forest,Like an athlete full of zest.Like a lamp in temple,Like the life feeling ample.Like the feel of the dawn,Like the grace of the swan.Like the melody of sitar,Like the rage of guitar.Like a group of angels in the sky,Like the pot...

I am no longer a writer. Just an emotion. An emotion that is unable to stay within its own body, and is therefore, trying to make its way into yours.

All a poet can do today is warn.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to...

Dulce Et Decorum EstBent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue;...

Humanity is its own worst enemy. What chance do any other species have?Survival is the parchment upon which the Law of Nature is inscribed.And what I’ll find was always mine.And what I’ll say, I’ve said before.Your kisses taste like blood and wineAnd leave me spent upon the floor.I have endured torments you cannot yet imagine....

All that really matters isto feel alive, if only for a single moment –to feel in Intense Sensationthat our existence is not an endless repetitionof sleeping, eating, drinking, and dressing.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—We murder to dissect.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Lines Written In Early SpringI heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.Through primrose tufts, in that...

My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;

Books! tis a dull and endless strife:Come, hear the woodland linnet,How sweet his music! on my life,There’s more of wisdom in it.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

THOUGH you are in your shining days,Voices among the crowdAnd new friends busy with your praise,Be not unkind or proud,But think about old friends the most:Time’s bitter flood will rise,Your beauty perish and be lostFor all eyes but these eyes.

Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worstAre full of passionate intensity.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

Only the poet truly understands what is written between the pregnant pauses they create.

Nature, it seems, is the popular namefor milliards and milliards and milliardsof particles playing their infinite gameof billiards and billiards and billiards.

From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbor, and to love your neighbor’s wife

Many CastlesOn My Travels i have been A guest in Many castles Yet the Monument Which i Find Divine Is the oasis Where the heart And the silence Intertwine.

Tilanteessa jossa henkilö on jo kiivennyt katolleja heiluttelee nyt räystään yli jalkojaan kuin krokettimailoja(puuttuu vain punainen pallo ja kalahdus, aimo annos aurinkoista mieltä)tyyneys on valttia. Haasteellisinta on hillitä vastustamaton halu kiivetähänen viereensä, levittää kädet siiviksi ja mäiskähtää katuun yhdessähänen kanssaan.

When he came back, I hid my face within my hands. He said: “Fear nothing. Who has seen our kiss? –Who saw us? The night and the moon.””And the stars and the first flush of dawn. The moon has seen its visage in the lake, and told it to the water ‘neath the willows. The...

So, the world happens twice–once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

Reluctant hero, drafted again each Fourthof July, I’ll bow and remember you. Whoshall we follow next? Who shall we killnext time?

Once you decide to do right, life is easy, there are no distractions.

This dream the world is having about itselfincludes a trace on the plains of the Oregon trail,a groove in the grass my father showed us allone day while meadowlarks were trying to tellsomething better about to happen.

{Letter from Fawcett to the great Robert Ingersoll, 1894}I do so wish, that, in all these big questions, literary men would take you more for a guide than they do, or seem to do. You have, of course, an immense constituency; but your love of letters and your deeply poetic spirit render you worthy of...

Dance,’ they told me, and I stood still,and while I stood quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.’Pray,’ they said, and I laughed,covering myself in the earth’s brightnesses,and then stole off gray into the midst of a revel,and prayed like an orphan.

I didn’t know the demonsthat walked across your memory.They came from the dustwhen you were at peacein your grave.

I am a butterfly poetbirthed from painflying with the freedomof my verses.

Let me live my final days whole.Let my memory remain that I might know love’s face.Life don’t unwrap me to be fed to scavengers.I want to escape into light – not exist in darkness.

The one who pulls the puppet strings knows fairytales can heal.

You were the poem I never knew how to write because no words could describe the wind you cannot see, but feel.

Listen! If stars are litIt means there is someone who needs it,It means someone wants them to be,That someone deems those specks of spitMagnificent!

Take the time to write. You can do your life’s work in half an hour a day.

A word is elegy to what it signifies.

Every attempt to fix eternity is an escape from reality. I will be plaguing my days with moments and minutes. For ever is too far!

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,Seeming to bury that posterityWhich, by the rights of time, thou needs must haveIf thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

Sonnet 65Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout,...

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the poets, who try to to keep civilization alive.

There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either

Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

He that is thy friend indeed,He will help thee in thy need:If thou sorrow, he will weep;If thou wake, he cannot sleep:Thus of every grief in heartHe with thee doth bear a part.These are certain signs to knowFaithful friend from flattering foe.

There’s an old saying that applies to me: you can’t lose a game if you don’t play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)

A poet’s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.

All the world’s a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And...

Sonnet 130My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there...