I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least.
In the faces of men and women, I see God.
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you/ That you may be my poem/ I whisper with my lips close to your ear/ I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
NOT I – NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
The future is no more uncertain than the present.
Resist much, obey little.
me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?
Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.
I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. One world is aware, and by the far the largest to me, and that is myself, And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness, I can wait.
Oh while I live, to be the ruler of life, not a slave, to meet life as a powerful conqueror, and nothing exterior to me will ever take command of me.
Those who love each other shall become invincible.
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
A reminiscence sing.
I like the scientific spirit-the holding off, the being sure but not too sure, the willingness to surrender ideas when the evidence is against them: this is ultimately fine-it always keeps the way beyond open.
To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
We were together. I forget the rest.
I cannot too often repeat that Democracy is a word the real gist of which still sleeps, quite awakened, notwithstanding the resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come, from pen or tongue. It is a great word, whose history, I suppose, remains unwritten because that history has yet to be enacted.
Love the earth and sun and animals, Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, Stand up for the stupid and crazy, Devote your income and labor to others… And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.
Simplicity is the glory of expression.
I and this mystery, here we stand.