They have nothing but iced tea, is that okay?

カテゴリ: ポエトリー

Sweet is revenge — especially to women.

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

All who joy would win
Must share it,—happiness was born a twin.

Alas, the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing.

All tragedies are finish'd by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage.

Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but
The truth in masquerade.

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.

'Tis strange, — but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction.

It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all night from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joys in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart.

When we define a man by the market value of the service we can expect of him, we know him imperfectly.

Let this be my last word, that I trust in thy love.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!

I never spoke with God,
or visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.

My friends are my "estate." Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them.

Hope" is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —
I keep it, staying at Home—
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —
And an Orchard, for a Dome—

Success is counted sweetest       
By those who ne'er succeed.       
To comprehend a nectar          
Requires sorest need.            
Not one of all the purple host      
Who took the flag to-day          
Can tell the definition,            
So clear, of victory,            

As he, defeated, dying,            
On whose forbidden ear           
The distant strains of triumph    
Break, agonized and clear.

To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall, and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

If I can stop one heart from breaking, 
I shall not live in vain;            
If I can ease one life the aching,     
Or cool one pain,                
Or help one fainting robin         
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Fame is a bee.
It has a song-
It has a sting-
Ah, too, it has a wing.

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.