On Love:
Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss For everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind delight.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,And weary and worn are our sad souls nowLet us part, ere the season of passion forget us,With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon…
O love is the crooked thing,There is nobody wise enoughTo find out all that is in it.
A woman can be proud and stiffWhen on love intentBut Love has pitched his mansion inThe place of excrementFor nothing can be sole or wholeThat has not been rent.
On Life:
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write…. I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
Civilization is hoped together, brought under a rule, under the semblance of peace by manifold illusion, but Man’s life is thought, and he, despite his terror, cannot cease, ravening through century after century ravening, raging and uprooting, that
On Happiness:
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
On Knowledge:
I would be — for no knowledge is worth a straw –Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
On God:
Because I am mad about womenI am mad about the hills,Said that wild old wicked manWho travels where God wills. . . .