Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest,
Nor shall death brag thou wandrest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountain's kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Valentine

My heart has made its mind up
And I'm afraid it's you.
Whatever you've got lined up,
My heart has made its mind up
And if you can't be signed up
This year, next year will do.
My heart has made its mind up
And I'm afraid it's you.

On Marriage (from The Prophet)

Then Almitra spoke again and said,
And what of Marriage, master?
    And he answered saying:
    You were born together, and together you shall be
        for evermore.
    You shall be together when the white wings of death
        scatter your days.
    Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory
        of God.
    But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
    And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
    Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of
        your souls.
    Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
    Give one another of your bread but eat not from the
        same loaf.
    Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each
        one of you be alone.
    Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they
        quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
    For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
    And stand together yet not too near together:
    For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
    And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each
        other's shadow.

Coat

Sometimes I have wanted
to throw you off
like a heavy coat.

Sometimes I have said
you would not let me
breathe or move.

But now that I am free
to choose light clothes
or none at all

I feel the cold
and all the time I think
how warm it used to be.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

by Richard Brautigan


Butcher, baker, candlestick maker,
anyone can get VD,
including those you love.
Please see a doctor
if you think you've got it.

You'll feel better afterwards
and so will those you love.

Boo, Forever
by Richard Brautigan


Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
   top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
   you.

All Watched Over
by Machines of Loving Grace
by Richard Brautigan


I'd like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
   (right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
   (it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

Love Poem
by Richard Brautigan


        It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
        all alone
and not have to tell somebody
        you love them
when you don't love them
        any more.

The Beautiful Poem
by Richard Brautigan


I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
        about you.
Pissing a few monents ago
I looked down at my penis
        affectionately.

Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
        feel beautiful.

Gee, You're So Beautiful
That It's Starting to Rain
by Richard Brautigan


Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
      to look like this:
Playing with Gentle Glass Things
      A

Computer Magic
      A

Writing Letters to Those You Love
      A

Finding out about Fish
      A

Marcia's long blonde beauty
      A+!

Gee, You're So Beautiful
That It's Starting to Rain
by Richard Brautigan


Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
      to look like this:

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal

HE who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head.
And thus rewards the toils which to those summits led.

SO we'll go no more a-roving
   So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
   And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
   And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
   And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
   By the light of the moon.

ROUSSEAU -- Voltaire -- our Gibbon -- De Staël --
Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

George Gordan, Lord Byron

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Exchanges

ALL that I had I brought,
Little enough I know;
A poor rhyme roughly wrought,
A rose to match thy snow:
All that I had I brought.

Little enough I sought:
But a word compassionate,
A passing glance, or thought,
For me outside the gate:
Little enough I sought.

Little enough I found:
All that you had, perchance!
With the dead leaves on the ground,
I dance the devil's dance.
All that you had I found.

THIS libation, Cupid, take,
With the lilies at thy feet;
Cherish Pierrot for their sake
Send him visions strange and sweet,
While he slumbers at thy feet.
Only love kiss him awake!
Only love kiss him awake

WHO is this mortal
Who ventures to-night
To woo an immortal,
Cold, cold the moon's light
For sleep at this portal,
Bold lover of night.
Fair is the mortal
In soft, silken white,
Who seeks an immortal.
Ah, lover of night,
Be warned at the portal,
And save thee in flight!

What Is Love?

WHAT is Love?
Is it a folly,
Is it mirth, or melancholy?
Joys above,
Are there many, or not any?
What is Love?

If you please,
A most sweet folly!
Full of mirth and melancholy:
Both of these!
In its sadness worth all gladness,
If you please!

Prithee where,
Goes Love a-hiding?
Is he long in his abiding
Anywhere?
Can you bind him when you find him;
Prithee, where?

With spring days
Love comes and dallies:
Upon the mountains, through the valleys
Lie Love's ways.
Then he leaves you and deceives you
In spring days.

Beyond

LOVE'S aftermath! I think the time is now
That we must gather in, alone, apart
The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,
     Love's aftermath.
Ah, sweet,--sweet yesterday, the tears that start
Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow,
Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart,
Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow
The twilight of poor love: we can but part,
Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow,
     Love's aftermath.

Jadis

EREWHILE, before the world was old,
When violets grew and celandine,
In Cupid's train we were enrolled:
     Erewhile!
Your little hands were clasped in mine,
Your head all ruddy and sun-gold
Lay on my breast which was your shrine,
And all the tale of love was told:
Ah, God, that sweet things should decline,
And fires fade out which were not cold,
     Erewhile.

A Last Word

LET us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

On Parting

ALAS! our pleasant moments fly
On rapid wings away,
While those recorded with a sigh,
Mock us by long delay.

Time,--envious time,--loves not to be
In company with mirth,
But makes malignant pause to see
The work of pain on earth.

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

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?

I think it is the hope of loving,
or being loved.

I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey
to find its source, and how the moon wept
without her lover’s
warm gaze.

We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither
like fields if someone close
does not rain their
kindness
upon
us.

Sweet is my hope.
Pure is the life of my hope.
With my sweet hope
I try to reach the higher worlds.
With my pure hope
I try to fathom my inner worlds.
But alas,
In neither way do I succeed.
I fail,
I miserably fail.

Love adorns itself;
it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty.

Rabindranath Tagore