Emotions and Feelings

What were all the world’s alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen’s arms?

But Love has pitched his mansion in The place of excrement For nothing can be sole or whole That has not been rent.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

I had wild Jack for a lover.

Things said or done long years ago, Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast, Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast, Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.

When such as I cast out remorse So great a sweetness flows into the breast We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blest.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man’s ditch.

The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say; Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day; The second best’s a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.

What they undertook to do They brought to pass; All things hang like a drop of dew Upon a blade of grass.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

What shall I do with this absurdity— O heart, O troubled heart—this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog’s tail?

Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

If there’s no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?

An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.