David Mitchell

The stars adorn the heaven at night,
They beautify with gleaming light
The sky of dismal hue;
They shiver in the icy cold,
...

Le printemps — la saison quand l'agréable tiédeur
Recommence, apportant avec lui son bonheur,
...

That is what I firmly believe.
I understand that some people find it hard to believe in God.
So do we all, at times.
We are human beings.
...

It is the part of the poet
To tell his readers
What they already know
and know they know
...

If what follows this life
Is a heaven without suffering,
Where the recollection of past suffering
Does not induce present suffering;
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Slender, swimming, silent swan!
How gracefully you glide along!
Your coat of white, purer than snow;
You see, with lofty eyes, to grow
...

The shining summer ages, dwindles, dies;
The heat turns to the cold.
The former azure hue of yonder skies
Is hardly to behold:
...

As languidly my feet plod home,
My thoughts the universe o'er-roam;
The silent stillness still inspires
A muteness of Cimmerian choirs
...

We exist: of that no sane person does doubt,
Although there may pseudophilosophers be,
...

I turn the television on
And what abysmal hell
Pollutes the screen? What could it be
But Eamonn Holmes' Hard Spell?
...

Hail, magical and awe-inspiring bean,
Salvation of the fat and of the lean,
Blest refuge in this wretched vale of tears,
Inspiriting the ever-rolling years;
...

The earth each day travels her weary round,
Partly in sunlight, partly in darkness hid;
Around the sun she goes without a sound,
And nothing her trajectory can forbid:
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What is a poet? a person who writes
And longs to ascend to Olympian heights;
A person who's seized with irregular madness,
Who's joyous when glad and depressed in his sadness;
...

The sun has sunk beneath the skies,
But leaves a soft warm glow behind;
And, climbing slowly down, he dies,
Like me to heavy rest inclined:
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I do not think I ever saw
A squirrel red before:
I do not think that I shall see
Another evermore.
...

Tell me, sir, where is my Lord, for they have taken him away,
Said Mary Magdalene before the dawning of the day,
And I know not where they've laid him, - sir, with him what have you done?
Mary, soft said the risen Christ and Everlasting Sun.
...

This day is dark and dismal, as our sorrows we bewail:
As we reflect upon our extinct Master's woeful tale:
We fail'd him in his life, even as we fail him in his death:
And shall we see his like again - Jesus of Nazareth?
...

I always thought that poetry ought
To transcend bounds of time:
I realize I archaize —
I sometimes even rhyme.
...

When I die, I am going to go to heaven.
I hope so, anyway.
But I do not comprehend what heaven is, or how.
It is in opposition to hell.
...

The sun shines bright through azure skies,
Perpetually shedding his rays,
Even when into the dark he hies, —
All nights at length turn into days.
...