On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.
blind wantons like the gulls who scream And rip the edge off any ideal or dream.
There seeps from heavily jowled or hawk-like foreign faces The guttural sorrow of the refugees.
a fortress against ideas and against the Shuddering insidious shock of the theory-vendors The little sardine men crammed in a monster toy Who tilt their aggregate beast against our crumbling Troy.
All that I would like to be is human, having a share in a civilized, articulate and well-adjusted community where the mind is given its due but the body is not distrusted
World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural.
I was the rector's son, born to the anglican order, Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor; The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
It’s bad enough. . . when a country gets colonized, but when the people do as well! That’s the end, really, that’s the end.
You have all died many times before and none of you look the worse for it.
Respect is the most important thing. Be respectful toward others and have respect for yourself.
I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different.