I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you. Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart).
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To be nobody but yourself, in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
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And bigamy, sir, is a crime.'
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for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea
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To be nobody but yourself, in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
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these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter...
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To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
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Every answer asks a more beautiful question
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There was an old party of Lyme Who married three wives at one time.
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I was much distressed by next door people who had twin babies and played the violin; but one of the twins died, and the other has eaten the fiddle - so all is peace.
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The idea that nations should love one another, or that business concerns or marketing boards should love one another, or that a man in Portugal should love a man in Peru of whom he has never heard --it is absurd, unreal, dangerous. The fact is we can only love what we know personally. And we cannot know much.
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Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
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A politician is an arse upon which everybody has sat except a man
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Oh, what a might is this whose single frown Doth shake the world as it would shake it down?...
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Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.
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someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance...
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America makes prodigious mistakes, America has colossal faults, but one thing cannot be denied: America is always on the move. She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still.
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to be yourself in a world that is doing its best, day and night to make you like everybody else--is to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight.
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one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face)...
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The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.
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lovers alone wear sunlight
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A politician is an arse upon which everybody has sat except a man
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how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death
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The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
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A friend is one who knows us, but loves us anyway.
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It is my belief that the writer, the free-lance author, should be and must be a critic of the society in which he lives. It is easy enough, and always profitable, to rail away at national enemies beyond the sea, at foreign powers beyond our borders who question the prevailing order. But the moral duty of the free writer is to begin his work at home; to be a critic of his own community, his own country, his own culture. If the writer is unwilling to fill this part, then the writer should abandon pretense and find another line of work: become a shoe repairman, a brain surgeon, a janitor, a cowboy, a nuclear physicist, a bus driver.
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Be of love a little more careful than of anything.
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To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
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It was a dark and stormy night the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
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(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
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