Quotes

And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeather’d two-legg’d thing, a son.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair.

Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was white as leprosy, The nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolved to ruin or to rule the state.

She says, “But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.” Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires.

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops.

Now spurs the lated traveler apace To gain the timely inn.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to someone else’s is about as much as I can stand.

All empire is no more than power in trust.

We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.

“The game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!” Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

Better one suffer, than a nation grieve.

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt!

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds.

Now good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both!

Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me.

The sun’s rim dips, the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper o’er the sea Off shot the specter bark.

A man so various that he seem’d to be Not one, but all mankind’s epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.

I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

The air-drawn dagger.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.