Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death. It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep; It hears a voice within it tell: Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well. 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, But 'tis not what our youth desires.
We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear; With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily.
The discipline of the Old Testament may be summed up as a discipline teaching us to abhor and flee from sin; the discipline of the New Testament, as a discipline teaching us to die to it.
To the Bible men will return; and why? Because they cannot do without it.
The same heart beats in every human breast.
The kings of modern thought are dumb.
Beautiful city! . . . spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age . . . her ineffable charm. . . . Adorable dreamer, whose heart has been so romantic!
One has often wondered whether upon the whole earth there is anything so unintelligent, so unapt to perceive how the world is really going, as an ordinary young Englishman of our upper class.
Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, To lead those false who trust it.
For eager teachers seized my youth, pruned my faith and trimmed my fire. Showed me the high, white star of truth, there bade me gaze and there aspire.
Like driftwood spares which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain, So on the sea of life, alas! Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!
Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar! The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel what others give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.
He will find one English book and one only, where, as in the "Iliad" itself, perfect plainness of speech is allied with perfect nobleness; and that book is the Bible.
But there remains the question: what righteousness really is. The method and secret and sweet reasonableness of Jesus.
The eternal not ourselves that makes for righteousness.
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream.
Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye.
Indeed there can be no more useful help for discovering what poetry belongs to the class of the truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, than to have always in one's mind lines and expressions of the great masters, and to apply them as a touchstone to other poetry.
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.
Everything in our political life tends to hide from us that there is anything wiser than our ordinary selves.
O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain!
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.
And amongst us one, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne.
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