My Days Among the Dead Are Past, st. 4.
Source: The Crucible (1953)
Context: Danforth: Do you mean to deny this confession when you are free?
Proctor: I mean to deny nothing!
Danforth: Then explain to me, Mr. Proctor, why you will not let —
Proctor: [With the cry of his whole soul] Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!
Sognami
Original: (it) Sai che tu non mi basti mai, | non ancora vicina stai, | basta sogni ti voglio qui con me, | non andartene ancora.
Source: Tarquini & Prevale – Sognami https://www.musixmatch.com/lyrics/Tarquini-Prevale/Sognami/, Musixmatch.com, June 16, 2016
“The day I leave the power, inside my pockets will only be dust.”
Quoted in Salazar: biographical study - page 383; of Franco Nogueira - Published by Atlantis Publishing, 1977
“The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.”
"The Knight's Tomb" (c. 1817)
“Woman's faith and woman's trust,
Write the characters in dust.”
The Betrothed, Chap. xx.
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919)
“If the names are unknown knowledge of the things also perishes.”
Philosophia Botanica (1751), aphorism 210. Trans. Frans A. Stafleu, Linnaeus and the Linnaeans: The Spreading of their Ideas in Systematic Botany, 1735-1789 (1971), 80.
“For I had expected always
Some brightness to hold in trust,
Some final innocence
To save from dust”
"What I Expected Was" (l. 25–28). . .
"The Larger College".
In Classic Shades, and Other Poems (1890)
“Who then to frail mortality shall trust
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.”
The World (1629)
“Leave
To poets a moment of happiness,
Otherwise your world will perish.”
"In Warsaw" (1945), trans. Czesŀaw Miŀosz, Robert Hass and Madeline Levine
Rescue (1945)
Context: How can I live in this country
Where the foot knocks against
The unburied bones of kin?
I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot
Write anything; five hands
Seize my pen and order me to write
The story of their lives and deaths.
Was I born to become
a ritual mourner?
I want to sing of festivities,
The greenwood into which Shakespeare
Often took me. Leave
To poets a moment of happiness,
Otherwise your world will perish.
