There are fewer ways of making love than they say, and more than one believes.
The end we know not; but we wander on, Down the regretful wilderness of time.
The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.
What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship that will cross the sea, we plant the mast to carry the sails, we plant the planks to withstand the gales--the keel, the keelson, and beam and knee--we plant the ship when we plant the tree.
And once I knew a meditative rose That never raised its head from bowing down, Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. It bloomed and faded here beside the road, And, being a poet, wrote on empty air With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.
Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.
Love is the key-note of the universe-- The theme, the melody.
When I was 14 and living in London, I'd go around Hampton Court Palace with its marvelous atmosphere, through the gateway where Ann Boleyn walked, the haunted gallery down which Katherine Howard ran. It all set me going. It all started from there.
Your waist size should not be more than half your height.
Envy, the attendant of the empty mind.
I guess the anthropomorphising is something I've done all my life.