The friends that have it I do wrong whenever I remake a song should know what issue is at stake, It is myself that I remake.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
The triumph look down with contempt.
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart.
Thereon he shook the more and cast him down.
Those masterful images because complete grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
To help good, wise or great .
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Was done to make it plain.
We must not make a false faith by hiding from our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make to God, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity.
What matter if I live it all once more? Endure that toil of growing up; the ignominy of boyhood; the distress of boyhood changing into man; the unfinished man and his pain brought face to face with his own clumsiness; the finished man among his enemies? ? How in the name of heaven can he escape that defiling and disfigured shape the mirror of malicious eyes casts upon his eyes until at last he thinks that shape must be his shape?
When one gets quiet, then something wakes up inside one, something happy and quiet like the stars.
Whether under its daylight or its stars.
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame.
With apple blossoms in her hair.
You have accused me of upsetting order by my free drinks, and I have showed you that there is a more dreadful fermentation in the Sermon on the Mount than in my beer-barrels. Christ thought it in the irresponsibility of His omnipotence.
Surely some revelation is at hand.
That I loved once.
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves, the brilliant moon and all the milky sky, and all that famous harmony of leaves, had blotted out man?s image and his cry.
The Heavens in my womb.
The poor have very few hours in which to enjoy themselves; they must take their pleasure raw; they haven't the time to cook it.
The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry by some peasant gospeler.
Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid.
There's keen delight in what we have.
Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.