Archives - April 2010

All The Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin' In The Sun,
Talkin' 'Bout The Things
They Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda Done...
But All Those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All Ran Away And Hid
From One Little Did.

I have no riches but my thoughts,
Yet these are wealth enough for me

Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

Grief may be joy misunderstood

Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie:
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.

Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

We have within ourselves
Enough to fill the present day with joy,
And overspread the future years with hope.

I like to find
what's not found
at once, but lies
within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.

Blest hour! It was a luxury -- to be!

Silence more musical than any song.

When I died last, and dear, I die
As often as from thee I go.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of
me
is a miracle.

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonders of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

Never ask of money spent
Where the spender thinks it went.
Nobody was ever meant
To remember or invent
What he did with every cent.

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then -- as I am listening now.

Keep a poem in your pocket
and a picture in your head
and you’ll never feel lonely
at night when you’re in bed.

Being, not doing, is my first joy.

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.

What's drinking?
A mere pause from thinking!

Only be willing to search for poetry, and there will be
poetry:
My soul, a tiny speck, is my tutor.
Evening sun and fragrant grass are common things,
But, with understanding, they can become glorious verse.

Our torments also may in length of time
Become our elements.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?

I count life just a stuff
To try the soul's strength on.

Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of
ending;
Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

It is brave to be involved
To be not fearful to be unresolved.

Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.

'Tis the pest
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers
in
It after all, a place for the genuine.