I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.
And how am I to face the odds of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid in a world I never made.
Clay lies still but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep Up, lad; when the journey's over There'll be time enough to sleep.
The loveliest of trees, the cherry now is hung with bloom along the bough, and stands about the woodland ride wearing white for Eastertide.
Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.
The laws of God, the laws of man he may keep that will and can; not I: let God and man decree laws for themselves and not for me.
The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.
In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.
Great literature should do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions.
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
Malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
If a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.