"Account", Czeslaw Milosz

[ninasafiri.livejournal.com]

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.
—Czeslaw Milosz

(no subject)

[jillianfish.livejournal.com]

I suppose this isn't generally considered a poem, but rather a quote, seeing as how it doesn't have a title and was never published as a poem (that I could find). But it speaks to me and I believe that I will consider it a poem, at least for the purposes of posting it here. Without further ado:

There's one sad truth in life, I've found
While journeying east and west-
The only folks we really wound
Are those we love the best.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.

-Ella Wheeler Wilcox