Bret Harte

If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, ‘It might have been,’More sad are these we daily see:’It is, but hadn’t ought to be.

If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, ‘It might have been,’More sad are these we daily see:’It is, but hadn’t ought to be.

– Bret Harte –

© License assigned to YouCanQuoteME. License CC BY-NC 4.0 NC
📲 Copy this QR code to share the phrase wherever you want
QR del artículo

Do you want to publish your thoughts, reflections, or your own quotes?

Publish your quotes
Share our content

Related quotes

Eugenio Montejo

The Earth Turned to Bring us Closerby: Eugenio MontejoThe earth turned to bring us closerit turned on itself and within usuntil it finally brought us together in this dreamas written in the Symposium.Nights passed by, snowfalls and solsticestime passed in minutes and millennia.An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveharrived in Nebraska.A rooster was singing some distance from the world,in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.The earth was spinning with its musiccarrying us on board;it didn’t stop turning a single momentas if so much love,so much that is beautifulwas only an adagio written long agoin the Symposium’s score.

Stephen Chbosky

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poemAnd he called it “Chops” because that was the name of his dogAnd that’s what it was all aboutAnd his teacher gave him an A and a gold starAnd his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his auntsThat was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zooAnd he let them sing on the busAnd his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hairAnd his mother and father kissed a lotAnd the girl around the corner sent him aValentine signed with a row of X’s and he had to ask his father what the X’s meantAnd his father always tucked him in bed at nightAnd was always there to do itOnce on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poemAnd he called it “Autumn” because that was the name of the seasonAnd that’s what it was all aboutAnd his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearlyAnd his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paintAnd the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigarsAnd left butts on the pewsAnd sometimes they would burn holesThat was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black framesAnd the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa ClausAnd the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lotAnd his father never tucked him in bed at nightAnd his father got mad when he cried for him to do it.Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poemAnd he called it “Innocence: A Question” because that was the question about his girlAnd that’s what it was all aboutAnd his professor gave him an A and a strange steady lookAnd his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed herThat was the year that Father Tracy diedAnd he forgot how the end of the Apostle’s Creed wentAnd he caught his sister making out on the back porchAnd his mother and father never kissed or even talkedAnd the girl around the corner wore too much makeupThat made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to doAnd at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundlyThat’s why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poemAnd he called it “Absolutely Nothing”Because that’s what it was really all aboutAnd he gave himself an A and a slash on each damned wristAnd he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn’t think he could reach the kitchen.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *