I had to drop the armful in the road And try to stack them in a better load.
The artist in me cries out for design.
But that beginning was wiped out in fear The day I swung suspended with the grapes, And was come after like Eurydice And brought down safely from the upper regions; And the life I live now's an extra life I can waste as I please on whom I please.
Seeing myself well lost once more, I sighed, "Where, where in Heaven am I? But don't tell me! O opening clouds, by opening on me wide. Let's let my heavenly lostness overwhelm me."
You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's. He is more particular.... The father is always a Republican towards his son, and his mother's always a Democrat.
Builder, in building the little house, In every way you may please yourself; But please please me in the kitchen chimney: Don't build me a chimney upon a shelf.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
We are all doomed to broken-off careers, And so's the nation, so's the total race. The earth itself is liable to the fate Of meaninglessly being broken off. (And hence so many literary tears At which my inclination is to scoff.)
But waste was of the essence of the scheme. And all the good they did for man or god To all those flowers they passionately trod Was leave as their posterity one pod With an inheritance of restless dream.
And so on into winter Till even I have ceased To come as a foot printer, And only some slight beast So mousy or so foxy Shall print there as my proxy.