Come live with mee, and be my love
But these young scholars, who invade our hills
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flowers,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world [...]
| I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. |
| ... |
| In all the people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, |
| And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. |
Because I could not stop for Death--
He kindly stopped for me--
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
And Immortality.
| That is no country for old men. |
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Let us raise up a temple
To the cult of mediocrity,
Do nothing by halves
Which can be done by quarters.
Sun stun me sustain me
turn me to stone
Stone goad me gall me
urge me to run
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Shall then another do what I have done—
be with those legs and arms and breasts at one?
After the first death, there is no other.
The tide has since cast up its scroll
and told what time could tell;
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.