Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole The mellow glory of the Attic stage.
Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade.
The young light-hearted masters of the waves.
Resolve to be thyself and know that who finds himself, loses his misery.
France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme.
And we forget because we must and not because we will.
Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties
It is almost impossible to exaggerate the proneness of the human mind to take miracles as evidence, and to seek for miracles as evidence.
Resolve to be thyself and know that he who finds himself, loses his misery.
Waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
Our society distributes itself into Barbarians, Philistines and Populace and America is just ourselves with the Barbarians quite left out, and the Populace nearly.
It is so small a think to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.
Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men
He Chaucer lacks the high seriousness of the great classics, and therewith an important part of their virtue.
Philistinism - We have not the expression in English. Perhaps we have not the word because we have so much of the thing.
It is - last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man
Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity.
And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night
When we first saw the news of the bombing we didn't know he was out there in Bali,
Know, man hath all which nature hath, but more, and in that more lie all his hopes of good
We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides.
But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon.
Oxford whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age . . . Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties
But each day brings its petty dust our soon-choked souls to fill, and we forget because we must, and not because we will.