Archives - April 2010

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.

The secret of eternal youth is arrested development.