Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.
All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.
The thoughts of others Were light and fleeting, Of lovers' meeting Or luck or fame. Mine were of trouble, And mine were steady; So I was ready When trouble came.
Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here I am in hell.
I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.
June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.
Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
Here dead lie we because we did not choose To live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; But young men think it is, and we were young.
To stand up straight and tread the turning mill, To lie flat and know nothing and be still, Are the two trades of man; and which is worse I know not, but I know that both are ill.
Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye; And luckier may you find the night Than ever you found the day.
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
Halt by the headstone naming The heart no longer stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.
The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.
Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild; He has devoured the infant child. The infant child is not aware It has been eaten by a bear." "Infant Innocence
Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose.
Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer.
Great literature should do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail.
First don: O cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? Second don: State the alternative preferred, With reasons for your choice.
And malt does more than Milton can/ To justify God's ways to man." - "Terence, This is Stupid Stuff
And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
Ale, man, Ale's the stuff to drink, for fellows whom it hurts to think.
...down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again.
