That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.
Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.
But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.
I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.
Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.
Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.
A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
If a man will comprehend the richness and variety of the universe, and inspire his mind with a due measure of wonder and awe, he must contemplate the human intellect not only on its heights of genius but in its abysses of ineptitude.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.
When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.
With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.
I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
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