14 Total Quotes

Age Quotes

Why is this age worse than earlier ages? In a stupor of grief and dread have we not fingered the foulest wounds and left them unhealed by our hands? In the west the falling light still glows, and the clustered housetops glitter in the sun, but here Death is already chalking the doors with crosses, and calling the ravens, and the ravens are flying in.
Anna Akhmatova Permalink
#Age

Matthew Arnold
What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength-- Not our bloom only, but our strength--decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! but not, Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow, A golden day's decline! 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion--none. 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.
Matthew Arnold Permalink
#Age

Three times thrice hath winter's rough white wing Crossed and curdled wells and streams with ice Since his birth whose praises love would sing Three times thrice. Earth nor sea bears flower nor pearl of price Fit to crown the forehead of my king, Honey meet to please him, balm, nor spice. Love can think of nought but love to bring Fit to serve or do him sacrifice Ere his eyes have looked upon the spring Three times thrice. II. Three times thrice the world has fallen on slumber, Shone and waned and withered in a trice, Frost has fettered Thames and Tyne and Humber Three times thrice, Fogs have swoln too thick for steel to slice, Cloud and mud have soiled with grime and umber Earth and heaven, defaced as souls with vice, Winds have risen to wreck, snows fallen to cumber, Ships and chariots, trapped like rats or mice, Since my king first smiled, whose years now number Three times thrice. III. Three times thrice, in wine of song full-flowing, Pledge, my heart, the child whose eyes suffice, Once beheld, to set thy joy-bells going Three times thrice. Not the lands of palm and date and rice Glow more bright when summer leaves them glowing, Laugh more light when suns and winds entice. Noon and eve and midnight and cock-crowing, Child whose love makes life as paradise, Love should sound your praise with clarions blowing Three times thrice.
Algernon Swinburne Permalink
#Age

Charles Bukowski
To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine-- just a lightbulb and a potbelly, grayhaired, and glad to have the room. ...in the morning they're out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, carwashers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cabdrivers... and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes. from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
Charles Bukowski Permalink
#Age

Walter Landor,
To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone, So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
Walter Landor, Permalink
#Age

Walter Landor,
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Walter Landor, Permalink
#Age

You have read War and Peace. Now here is Sister Carrie, not up to Tolstoy; still it will second the real world: predictable planes and levels, pavement that holds you, stairs that lift you, ice that trips you, nights that begin after sunset, four lunar phases, a finite house. I give you Dreiser although (or because) I am no longer sure. Lately I have been walking into glass doors. Through the car windows, curbs disappear. On the highway, wrong turnoffs become irresistible, someone else is controlling the wheel. Sleepless nights pile up like a police record; all my friends are getting divorced. Language, my old comrade, deserts me; words are misused or forgotten, consonants fight each other between my upper and lower teeth. I write "fiend" for "friend" and "word" for "world", remember comes out with an "m" missing. I used to be able to find my way in the dark, sure of the furniture, but the town I lived in for years has pulled up its streets in my absence, disguised its buildings behind my back. My neighbor at dinner glances at his cuffs, his palms; he has memorized certain phrases, but does not speak my language. Suddenly I am aware no one at the table does. And so I give you Dreiser, his measure of certainty: a table that's oak all the way through, real and fragrant flowers, skirts from sheep and silkworms, no unknown fibers; a language as plain as money, a workable means of exchange; a world whose very meanness is solid, mud into mortar, and you are sure of what will injure you. I give you names like nails, walls that withstand your pounding, doors that are hard to open, but once they are open, admit you into rooms that breathe pure sun. I give you trees that lose their leaves, as you knew they would, and then come green again. I give you fruit preceded by flowers, Venus supreme in the sky, the miracle of always landing on your feet, even though the earth rotates on its axis. Start out with that, at least.
Lisel Mueller Permalink
#Age

Sorry, I almost forgot, but I don't think Its worth the effort to become a Carcanet poet With my mug-shot on art gloss paper In your catalogue as big as Mont Blanc Easier to imagine, as Benjamin Peret did, A wind that would unscrew the mountain Or stars like apricot tarts strolling Aimlessly along the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
Barry Tebb Permalink
#Age

The years become you as Oxford becomes you, As you became Oxford through the protest years; From Magdalen's grey gargoyles to its bridge in May, From the cement buttresses of Wellington Square To Balliol, Balliol in the rain. The years become you as the Abbey Road becomes you, As you became that road through silent years, From the famous crossing to the stunted bridge Caparisoned with carnivals of children, Cohorts of coloured clowns and Father Christmases. The years become you as the Clothworkers' Hall in gold Became you, and you became it through the protest years, When the Brotherton's Portland stone, its white stone Of innocence was snow in the School of English garden, 'A living sculpture', a Grene Knicht awaiting spring. The years become you, Oxford, Leeds and London, As you became them through the years of poems, Through passing, silent crowds, through the cherry blossom You sat under, plucked and ploughed, 'a dissenting voice', And Balliol, Balliol in the rain.
Barry Tebb Permalink
#Age

You cannot see the walls that divide your hand From his or hers or mine when you think you touch it. You cannot see the walls because they are glass, And glass is nothing until you try to pass it. Beat on it if you like, but not too hard, For glass will break you even while you break it. Shout, and the sound will be broken and driven backwards, For glass, though clear as water, is deaf as granite. This fraudulent inhibition is cunning: wise men Content themselves with breathing patterns on it.
A. S. J. Tessimond Permalink
#Age

They pass upon their old, tremulous feet, Creeping with little satchels down the street, And they remember, many years ago, Passing that way in silks. They wander, slow And solitary, through the city ways, And they alone remember those old days Men have forgotten. In their shaking heads A dancer of old carnivals yet treads The measure of past waltzes, and they see The candles lit again, the patchouli Sweeten the air, and the warm cloud of musk Enchant the passing of the passionate dusk. Then you will see a light begin to creep Under the earthen eyelids, dimmed with sleep, And a new tremor, happy and uncouth, Jerking about the corners of the mouth. Then the old head drops down again, and shakes, Muttering. Sometimes, when the swift gaslight wakes The dreams and fever of the sleepless town, A shaking huddled thing in a black gown Will steal at midnight, carrying with her Violet bags of lavender, Into the taproom full of noisy light; Or, at the crowded earlier hour of night, Sidle, with matches, up to some who stand About a stage-door, and, with furtive hand, Appealing: "I too was a dancer, when Your fathers would have been young gentlemen!" And sometimes, out of some lean ancient throat, A broken voice, with here and there a note Of unspoiled crystal, suddenly will arise Into the night, while a cracked fiddle cries Pantingly after; and you know she sings The passing of light, famous, passing things. And sometimes, in the hours past midnight, reels Out of an alley upon staggering heels, Or into the dark keeping of the stones About a doorway, a vague thing of bones And draggled hair. And all these have been loved. And not one ruinous body has not moved The heart of man's desire, nor has not seemed Immortal in the eyes of one who dreamed The dream that men call love. This is the end Of much fair flesh; it is for this you tend Your delicate bodies many careful years, To be this thing of laughter and of tears, To be this living judgment of the dead, An old gray woman with a shaking head.
Arthur Symons Permalink
#Age

William Butler Yeats
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress: While I must work because I am old, And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
William Butler Yeats Permalink
#Age

Spike Milligan
There will be a time when it will end. Be it parting Be it death So each passing minute with you Pendulummed with sadness. So many times I looked long into your face. I could hear the clock ticking.
Spike Milligan Permalink
#Age

Blow out the candles of your cake. They will not leave you in the dark, Who round with grace this dusky arc Of the grand tour which souls must take. You who have sounded William Blake, And the still pool, to Plato's mark, Blow out the candles of your cake. They will not leave you in the dark. Yet, for your friends' benighted sake, Detain your upward-flying spark; Get us that wish, though like the lark You whet your wings till dawn shall break: Blow out the candles of your cake.
Richard Wilbur Permalink
#Age