I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy.
I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy.
The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another
I have said, It is beauty and sorrow.
I broke my life, to seek relief
From the flawed light of love and grief.
O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.
To love never in this manner!
Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.
What have I thought of love?
Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.
But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.
No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.
Their love is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense or too lax.
Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.
Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.
Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.
Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.
The cold remote islands And the blue estuaries Where what breathes, breathes The restless wind of the inlets, And what drinks, drinks The incoming tide.
The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories