The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
True courage scorns to vent her prowess in a storm of words; and to the valiant action speaks alone.
Keetje Kuipers' poems are daring, formally beautiful and driven by rich imagery and startling ideas.
The rest, called literature, is a dossier of human imbecility for the guidance of future professors.
Never let the mud puddle get lost in the poetry because, in many ways, the mud puddle is the poetry.
I don't mind what Congress does, as long as they don't do it in the streets and frighten the horses.
It is most pleasant to commit a just action which is disagreeable to someone whom one does not like.
You have enemies? Why, it is the story of every man who has done a great deed or created a new idea.
If people did not love one another, I really don't see what use there would be in having any spring.
Philosophy is the microscope of thought. Everything desires to flee from it, but nothing escapes it.
To be perfectly happy it does not suffice to possess happiness, it is necessary to have deserved it.
There is a material advancement; we desire it. There is, also, a moral grandeur; we hold fast to it.
When I speak to you about myself, I am speaking to you about yourself. How is it you don't see that?
These are true felicities. No joy beyond these joys. Love is the only ecstasy, everything else weeps
One of the hardest tasks is to extract continually from one's soul an almost inexhaustible ill will.
To rove about, musing, that is to say loitering, is, for a philosopher, a good way of spending time.
A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.
There are good books which are only for adults. There are no good books which are only for children.
What answer to the meaning of existence should one require beyond the right to exercise one's gifts?
We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
Was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?
And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance, To rise, a poppy field of France?
Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile?
Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven,I oft have wished for Hell for ease from Heaven.
Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.
Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor.
I am giddy, expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.