Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,But young men think it is, and we were young.
You smile upon your friend to-day,To-day his ills are over;You hearken to the lover’s say,And happy is the lover.’Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never:I shall have lived a little whileBefore I die for ever.
Into my heart an air that killsFrom yon far country blows:What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come again.
Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill,And while the sun and moon endureLuck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,I’d face it as a wise man would,And train for ill and not for good.
Stone, steel, dominions pass,Faith too, no wonder;So leave alone the grassThat I am under.
The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-book.”, 3 October 1892)
Lie you easy, dream you light,And sleep you fast for aye;And luckier may you find the nightThan ever you found the day.
The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-
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 worseI know not, but I know that both are ill.
To-day I shall be strong,No more shall yield to wrong,Shall squander life no more;Days lost, I know not how,I shall retrieve them now;Now I shall keep the vowI never kept before.
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.
Oh on my breast in days hereafterLight the earth should lie,Such weight to bear is now the air,So heavy hangs the sky.(Additional Poems, X)
The thoughts of othersWere light and fleeting,Of lovers’ meetingOr luck or fame.Mine were of trouble,And mine were steady;So I was readyWhen trouble came.
Into my heart an air that killsFrom yon far country blows:What are those blue remembered hills,What spires, what farms are those?That is the land of lost content,I see it shining plain,The happy highways where I wentAnd cannot come
Tis the old wind in the old anger,But then it threshed another wood.
They say my verse is sad: no wonder.Its narrow measure spansRue for eternity, and sorrowNot mine, but man’sThis is for all ill-treated fellowsUnborn and unbegot,For them to read when they’re in troubleAnd I am not.
All knots that lovers tieAre tied to sever.Here shall your sweetheart lie,Untrue for ever.
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.
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.
June suns, you cannot store themTo warm the winter’s cold,The lad that hopes for heavenShall fill his mouth with mould.
Who made the world I cannot tell;’Tis made, and here I am in hell.
Stars, I have seen them fall,But when they drop and dieNo star is lost at allFrom all the star-sown sky.The toil of all that beHelps not the primal fault;It rains into the seaAnd still the sea is salt.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can. My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;Our only portion is the estate of man: We want the moon, but we shall get no more. (Last Poems, IX)
I seeIn many an eye that measures meThe mortal sickness of a mindToo unhappy to be kind.Undone with misery, all they canIs to hate their fello
Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
Ale, man, Ale’s the stuff to drink,for fellows whom it hurts to think.