Robert Frost, contribution to Esquire symposium on "What Worries You Most About America Today," 1958

Worries is a hard word for me. I am interested in strengthening the high schools of America, bringing them up. A little thing I want is named chairs in the high schools. Once you got it, you would be in it for life. This would enrich the position of the high school teacher. Their position is not dignified enough. The first chair, I'd have for mathematics. The other chair would be of the school's choosing. Instead of spraying money all over the colleges, I'd like to see something done for high-school teachers.

Passage from A.E. Housman's More Poems cited by Alan Bennett at dedication of Housman memorial, London, 17 Sept 1996

Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all's over;
I only vex you the more I try.
All's wrong that ever I've done or said,
And nought to help it in this dull head:
Shake hands. here's luck, good-bye.

But if you come to a road where danger
Or guilt or anger or shame's to share,
Be good to the lad that loves you true
And the soul that was born to die for you,
And whistle and I'll be there.

Kenneth Fearing, American Rhapsody (1938)

Tomorrow, yes tomorrow
there will suddenly be new success, like Easter
clothes, and a strange and different fate
and bona fide life will arrive at last, stepping
from a nonstop monoplane with chromium
doors and a silver wing and straight, white
staring lights
....

Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, surely we begin at last to live
with lots and lots of laughter
solid silver laughter
laughter, with a few simple instructions
and a bona fide guarantee

Walt Whitman, Mediums

They shall arise in the States,
They shall report Nature, laws, physiology, and happiness,
They shall illustrate democracy and the kosmos,
They shall be alimentive, amative, perceptive,
They shall be complete women and men, their pose brawny
and supple, their drink water, their blood clean and clear,
They shall fully enjoy materialism and the sight of products,
they shall enjoy the sight of the beef, lumber, breadstuffs,
of Chicago, the great city,
They shall train themselves to go in public to become
orators and oratresses,
Strong and sweet shall their tongues be, poems and
materials of poems shall come from their lives, they
shall be makers and finders,
Of them and of their works shall emerge divine conveyers,
to convey gospels,
Characters, events, retrospections, shall be convey'd in
gospels, trees, animals, waters, shall be convey'd,
Death, the future, the invisible faith, shall all be
convey'd

Umberto Saba, The Poet & the Conformist

How I envy you, Friend! Firmly
anchored to your faith, you live in peace
with men and gods. You talk and write
easily, true to the will
of your master. In exchange he gives you
bread and, as his thing, strokes you.
He doesn't point a weapon at you;
your smile fends off all threats. And you pass
among men and events almost unharmed.

There is one who thinks himself alone and defenseless.
He thinks his flesh has an excellent flavor.
Better, he thinks, in the hunter's sight
to be a sparrow than a partridge.

Sigur Ros, Ara bátur (English trans.)

Row Boat

You tried everything
Yes, a thousand times
Experienced enough
Been through enough
But you it was who let everything
Into my heart
And it was you who once again
Awoke my spirit

I parted, you parted

You stir up
Emotions
In a blender
Everything in disarray
But it was you who was always
There for me
It was you who never judged
My true friend

I parted, you parted
(hopelandic)

You sail on rivers
With an old oar
Leaking badly
You swim to shore
Pushed the waves away
But to no avail
You float on the sea
Sleep on the surface
Light through the fog

(hopelandic)

Upon seeing Wong Kar-wai's In the Mood for Love for the third time

Among green willows and fragrant grass along the road of post stations
Youth discards you and slips away
In the tower the fifth watch bell shatters what's left of dreams
Beneath the blossoms, the sorrow of parting and March rain
More bitter to love than not--
One inch unravels to a thousand, ten thousand threads
Somewhere is an edge of heaven, an end of earth
But to longing, there is no end.

-- Hating Spring, Yen Shu