I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
What do you do with all your money?
If America forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
You for me, kiss me, pull me by the ear.
I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.
The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.
Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.
To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damn hard.
The greatest the city could offer me, a stranger, was statues of the kings, on all corners bronzes of kings-ancient bearded kings who wrote books and spoke of God's love for all people-and young kings who took forth armies out across the frontiers splitting the heads of their opponents and enlarging their kingdoms.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
POETRY A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
I doubt if you can have a truly wild party without liquor.
I hear America, I hear, what do I hear?
Be water birds, be air birds.
Look out how we use proud words. When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back. They wear long boots, hard boots.
I knew I would read all kinds of books and try to get at what it is that makes good writers good. But I made no promises that I would write books a lot of people would like to read.
What is there more of in the world than anything else Ends
I rise out of my depths with my language.
He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields.
It is easy to spell good night.
The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
Money is nothing now, even if I had it.
My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time.
It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and
out all day that give the building a soul of dreams
and thoughts and memories.
I am here when the cities are gone.
Slang is language that takes off its coat, spits on its hands, and goes to work.
When the lawyers are through
What is there left, Bob?
Take these two chisel-pals, O God.
Smoke of autumn is on it all.
Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
I am the cause of the Sphinx,
The voiceless, baffled, patient Sphinx.
Oh, they were men and women who got money for their work, money or love or dreams.
Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of theunknown and the unknowable.
The snow piles in dark places are gone.
Bend low again, night of summer stars.
Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
And the world was all playthings.
In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.
Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
I know how much you know about Jesus.
Keep away from the little deaths.
The dust of the traveled road
Shall touch my hands and face.
I sang bye-lo, bye-lo to your dreams.
Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into
it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are
poured out again back to the streets, prairies and
valleys.
Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories