There is no reason for amazement: surely one always knew that cultures decay, and life's end is death.
The cold passion for truth hunts in no pack.
I have seen these ways of God: I know of no reason For fire and change and torture and the old returnings.
civilization is a transient sickness.
Happy people die whole, they are all dissolved in a moment, they have had what they wanted.
This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there.
It seems to me that this whole alone is worthy of the deeper sort of love; and that there is peace, freedom, I might say a kind of salvation, in turning one's affections outward toward this one God, rather than inwards on one's self, or on humanity, or on human imaginations and abstractions - the world of the spirits.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The world's in a bad way, my man, And bound to be worse before it mends; Better lie up in the mountain here Four or five centuries, While the stars go over the lonely ocean.
Long live freedom and damn the ideologies.
A little too abstract, a little too wise, It is time for us to kiss the earth again, It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies, Let the rich life run to the roots again.
That public men publish falsehoods Is nothing new. That America must accept Like the historical republics corruption and empire Has been known for years. Be angry at the sun for setting If these things anger you.
Poetry is not a civilizer, rather the reverse, for great poetry appeals to the most primitive instincts.
It is only a little planet, but how beautiful it is.
Still the mind smiles at its own rebellions.
Nature knows that people are a tide that swells and in time will ebb, and all their works dissolve ... As for us: We must uncenter our minds from ourselves. We must unhumanize our views a little and become confident as the rock and ocean that we are made from.
Cruelty is a part of nature, at least of human nature, but it is the one thing that seems unnatural to us.
Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.
Well: the day is a poem but too much Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.
If you should look for this place after a handful of lifetimes:Perhaps of my planted forest a fewMay stand yet, dark-leaved Australians or the coast cypress, haggardWith storm-drift; but fire and the axe are devils.Look for foundations of sea-worn granite, my fingers had the artTo make stone love stone, you will find some remnant.
The love of freedom has been the quality of Western man.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed
...[K]now that however ugly the parts appear the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand Is an ugly thing, and man dissevered from the earth and stars and his history... for contemplation or in fact... Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness, the greatest beauty is Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty of the universe....
And you, America, that passion made you. You were not born toprosperity, you were born to love freedom.You did not say "en masse," you said "independence." But wecannot have all the luxuries and freedom also.
As for me, I would rather be a worm in a wild apple than a son of man. But we are what we are, and we might remember not to hate any person, for all are vicious; And not to be astonished at any evil, all are deserved; And not to fear death; it is the only way to be cleansed.
Truly men hate the truth; they'd liefer meet a tiger on the road.
Does it matter whether you hate yourself? At least love your eyes that can see, your mind that can hear the music, the thunder of the wings.
We might remember ... not to fear death; it is the only way to be cleansed.
Seagulls . . . slim yachts of the element.
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.
God is a lion that comes in the night. God is a hawk gliding among the stars- If all the stars and the earth, and the living flesh of the night that flows in between them, and whatever is beyond them Were that one bird. He has a bloody beak and harsh talons, he pounces and tears.
You making haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
If millions are born millions must die.
Corruption never has been compulsory; when the cities lie at the monster's feet there are left the mountains.
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made / Something more equal to the centuries / Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.
They import and they consume reality.
Justice and mercy/ Are human dreams, they do not concern the birds nor the fish nor eternal God.
The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in me Older and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an ocean.
We have to live like people in a web of knives, we mustn't reach out our hands or we get them gashed.