#poe

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart. ↗

— Robert Frost

#life #poem #life

So I stared out at that cold window, watching my breath collect on the glass, trying not to think about my life after the thaw. ↗

— Ally Carter

#life

If I never meet you In this life Let me feel the lack A glance from your eyes Then my life Will be yours ↗

— James Jones

#life

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; ↗

— William Wordsworth

#life

Poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage. ↗

— Charles Dickens

#life

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest. The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. ↗

— Alexander Pope

#poetry #life

The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one: Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. ↗

— Francis William Bourdillon

#poetry #life

Every beginning has an end and every end has a new beginning, don't worry, broken soul, life will one day come to an end. ↗

— Santosh Kalwar

#poetry #life

If freckles were lovely, and day was night, And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie, Life would be delight,-- But things couldn't go right For in such a sad plight I wouldn't be I. If earth was heaven and now was hence, And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I'd be in suspense For on such a pretense You wouldn't be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee Things would seem fair,-- Yet they'd all despair, For if here was there We wouldn't be we. ↗

— E.E. Cummings

#life

I’m not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. I’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. I doubt I’ll ever cure this wanderlust, and I’m content with dedicating my life to failing to sate it... He’s never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme. ↗

— Ann Aguirre

#romance #life