And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon The golden apples of the sun.
If I make the lashes darkAnd the eyes more brightAnd the lips more scarlet,Or ask if all be rightFrom mirror after mirror,No vanity's displayedI'm looking for the face I hadBefore the world was made.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.
The last stroke of midnight dies.All day in the one chairFrom dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have rangedIn rambling talk with an image of airVague memories, nothing but memories.
Education is not filling a pail but the lighting of a fire.
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
Why should not old men be mad.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. r.
Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
Virgil - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Alexander Pope - William Somerville - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Ovid - Hesiod - Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Edmund Spenser - Anne Sexton