Quotes to inspire and reflect

George Brush is my name America’s my nation Luddington’s my dwelling place And Heaven’s my destination.

There was so much to love I could not love it all; I could not love it enough.

Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air, Reach to its rest, and fall.

I burned my life, that I might find A passion wholly of the mind, Thought divorced from eye and bone, Ecstasy come to breath alone.

Impossible men: idle, illiterate, For whose appearance even in City Parks Has God’s supply of tolerable husbands Or do I always over-value woman It might be so.

Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark—a shining space With the grave’s narrowness, though not its peace.

As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever.

I was born to know you To give you your name Freedom. 1

Farewell sadness Good morning sadness. 2

pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease.

a hopeless case if—listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height

and nothing quite so least as truth —i say though hate were why men breathe— because my father lived his soul love is the whole and more than all

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

unless statistics lie he was more brave than me:more blond than you.

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence.

“there is some s. I will not eat”

“I will not kiss your f.ing flag”

next to of course god america i love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth

i sing of Olaf glad and big whose warmest heart recoiled at war

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds.

take it from me kiddo believe me my country, ’tis of you, land of the Cluett Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint Girl With The Wrigley Eyes (of you land of the Arrow Ide and Earl & Wilson Collars) of you i sing: land of Abraham Lincoln and Lydia land above all of Just Add Hot Water And from every B.V.D. let freedom ring amen.

when the world is puddle-wonderful

Buffalo Bill’s defunct and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons- he was a handsome man how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death

in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee

All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania.

Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses.

Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

Four be the things I’d been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

What passing bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

The poet is a little god.

Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry, The subject of it is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. All a poet can do is warn. 1

In this most Christian of worlds

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, On a day I already remember. I shall die in Paris—it does not bother me— Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn. 1

Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow… Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.