Poetry quotes

there is something more in that bird’s flight Than could be tested in a crucible!— But the air freshens, let us go, why soon The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold Changed to a Harmony in grey: A barge with ochre-coloured hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses’ walls Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang Of waking life; the streets were stirred With country wagons: and a bird Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

O proudest heart that broke for misery! O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene! O poet-painter of our English Land! Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand: And tears like mine will keep thy memory green, As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

O singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone!

And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery Made Emperors drunken—come, great Egypt, shake Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, I am grown sick of unreal passions, make The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire, From passionate pain to deadlier delight⁠—

I am too young to live without desire, Too young art thou to waste this summer night Asking those idle questions which of old Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.

… from fire unto fire, From passionate pain to deadlier delight— I am too young to live without desire, Too young art thou to waste this summer night Asking those idle questions which of old Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.

For, sweet, to feel is better than to know, And wisdom is a childless heritage,

One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery glow— Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage: Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy, Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see!

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,

For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die.

Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand, No little coin of bronze can bring the soul Over Death’s river to the sunless land, Victim and wine and vow are all in vain, The tomb is sealed;

This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil, Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn To water-lilies; the brown fields men till Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,

Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s despite.

The boy’s first kiss, the hyacinth’s first bell, The man’s last passion, and the last red spear That from the lily leaps, the asphodel Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear Of too much beauty, and the timid shame Of the young bridegroom …

Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows If yonder daffodil had lured the bee Into its gilded womb, or any rose Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree!

Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.

Is the light vanished from our golden sun, Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair, That we are nature’s heritors, and one With every pulse of life that beats the air?

And spreading wide across the wold Wakes into flight some fluttering bird, And all the chestnut tops are stirred, And all the branches streaked with gold.

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,

And O how salt and bitter is the bread Which falls from this Hound’s table—better far That I had died in the red ways of war, Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, Than to live thus, by all things comraded Which seek …

Or how the little flower he trod upon, The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold, Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been The best belovèd for a little while,

To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams On some outward voyaging argosy— Ah! can it be We have lived our lives in a land of dreams! How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say But this, that love is never lost,

Keen winter stabs the breasts of May Whose crimson roses burst his frost, Ships tempest-tossed Will find a harbour in some bay, And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do But to kiss once again, and part, Nay, there is nothing we should rue, I have my beauty—you your Art, Nay, do not start,

One world was not enough for two Like me and you.

Within this restless, hurried, modern world We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I, And now the white sails of our ship are furled, And spent the lading of our argosy.

Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds, The night that covers and the lights that fade, The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds, The lips betraying and the life betrayed;

The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.

Is this the end of all that primal force Which, in its changes being still the same, From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, Till the suns met in heaven and began Their cycles, and the morning …

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth, And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you⁠—ah! what else had I a boy to do⁠—

For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Then, turning to my love, I said,

“The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.”

But she—she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust.

But she—she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in:

Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.

This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold.

And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band— And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree.

Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!

These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant’s price.

… not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?

The sin was mine; I did not understand.

So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

Hylas is dead, Nor will he e’er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine. On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.

An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly,

And, here and there, a passer-by Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf,

And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Could we live it over again, Were it worth the pain, Could the passionate past that is fled Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break, Dear love, for your sake, It will break in music, I know, Poets’ hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told That the brain can hold In a tiny ivory cell God’s heaven and hell.

Away to Egypt! Have no fear.

Only one God has ever died. Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s spear.

But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the hundred-cubit gate Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy head.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment.

It was night-time and He was alone.

All things that this man has done I have done also.

And yet they have not crucified me.

”

And God said to the Man, “Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?”

“Because in Hell have I always lived,” answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

And God said to the Man, “Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and for what reason?”

“Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,” answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

And he said to himself, “I will talk no more about God.

He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself.

”

And the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spoke not a word.

For he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.

And one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple and pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand, and said to the Hermit:

And the Hermit answered him and said,

“What you see in my eyes is pity. Pity is what looks out at you from my eyes.”

And the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter voice, and said to him, “I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you have but a mat of reeds on which to lie.

He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby grey; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.

I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space.

He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne;

With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves That in the springtime shoot: But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its adder-bitten root, And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all worldlings try: But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer’s collar take His last look at the sky?

The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all worldlings try: But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer’s collar take His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair:

To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!

It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare:

But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the Trial Men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock’s dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face In God’s sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other’s way:

But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were:

The world had thrust us from its heart, And God from out His care:

And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill: We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill: But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:

And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave.

But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept: So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another’s terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another’s guilt!

For, right within, the sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt, And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt.

All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corse!

The troubled plumes of midnight were The plumes upon a hearse:

And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savour of Remorse.

At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed,

And I knew that somewhere in the world God’s dreadful dawn was red.

At six o’clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed.

Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows’ need:

So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope: We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope:

Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way, And will not swerve aside: It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride: With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide!

We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope: We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope: Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way, And will not swerve aside:

It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride: With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide!

We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come: So, like things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb:

But each man’s heart beat thick and quick, Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the gaol rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound that frightened marshes hear From some leper in his lair.