Quotes to inspire and reflect

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf.

And neigh like Boanerges— Then punctual as a Star Stop—docile and omnipotent At its own stable door—

I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered— Brazil? He twirled a Button— Without a glance my way— “But—Madam—is there nothing else— That We can show—Today?”

I like to see it lap the Miles— And lick the Valleys up—

I reckon—when I count at all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God— And then—the List is done— But, looking back—the First so seems To Comprehend the Whole— The Others look a needless Show— So I write—Poets—All—

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night— We talked between the Rooms— Until the Moss had reached our lips— And covered up—our names—

It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down—

I died for Beauty—but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room—

This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me— The simple News that Nature told— With tender Majesty.

Good Morning—Midnight— I’m coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him?

Much Madness is divinest Sense— To a discerning Eye— Much Sense—the starkest Madness— ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail— Assent—and you are sane— Demur—you’re straightway dangerous— And handled with a Chain.

Except Thyself may be Thine Enemy— Captivity is Consciousness— So’s Liberty.

No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—

Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot— And cried “Give Me”—

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— I keep it, staying at Home— With a bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome—

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last— I’m going, all along.

I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time—

The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more—

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know! How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one’s name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog!

I tasted—careless—then— I did not know the Wine Came once a World—Did you? Oh, had you told me so— This Thirst would blister—easier—now

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all—

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats— And Saints—to windows run— To see the little Tippler Leaning against the—Sun—

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple Leaping like Leopards to the Sky… And the Juggler of Day is gone.

I taste a liquor never brewed, From Tankards scooped in Pearl—

Inebriate of Air—am I— And Debauchee of Dew— Reeling—through endless summer days— From inns of Molten Blue—

These are the days when Birds come back— A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume The old—old sophistries of June— A blue and gold mistake.

The thought beneath so slight a film— Is more distinctly seen— As laces just reveal the surge— Or Mists—the Apennine—

To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe—

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.

Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit— Life!

Behold the life at ease; it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.

Full lasting is the song, though he, The singer, passes.

With patient inattention hear him prate.

For singing till his heaven fills, ’Tis love of earth that he instills, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which over flows To lift us with him as he goes.

The song seraphically free Of taint of personality.

Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life!

Cynicism is intellectual dandyism.

No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

What are we first? First, animals; and next Intelligences at a leap; on whom Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb.

And if I drink oblivion of a day, So shorten I the stature of my soul.

Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we pay for it full worth; We have it only when we are half earth.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall.

Cruel, but composed and bland, Dumb, inscrutable and grand, So Tiberius might have sat, Had Tiberius been a cat.

Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!

Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.