Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too.
To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.
The great community of mankind had been subdivided into ten thousand communities, each organized for the ruin of the other.
Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
I cannot endure the horror, the evil, which comes to self in solitude.
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.
I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes - are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
Heaven's ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day!
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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