Tis light translateth night; 'tis inspiration Expounds experience; 'tis the west explains The east; 'tis time unfolds Eternity.
I am tired of looking on what is, One might as well see beauty never more, As look upon it with an empty eye. I would this world were over. I am tired.
Ah, nothing comes to us too soon but sorrow.
Dewdrops, Nature's tears, which she Sheds in her own breast for the fair which die. The sun insists on gladness; but at night, When he is gone, poor Nature loves to weep.
Stars which stand as thick as dewdrops on the field of heaven.
The sun, centre and sire of light, The keystone of the world-built arch of heaven.
Ask not of me, love, what is love? Ask what is good of God above; Ask of the great sun what is light; Ask what is darkness of the night; Ask sin of what may be forgiven; Ask what is happiness of heaven; Ask what is folly of the crowd; Ask what is fashion of the shroud; Ask what is sweetness of thy kiss; Ask of thyself what beauty is.
See the gold sunshine patching, And streaming and streaking across The gray-green oaks; and catching, By its soft brown beard, the moss.
When night hath set her silver lamp high, Then is the time for study.
The course of Nature seems a course of Death, And nothingness the whole substantial thing.
The beautiful are never desolate; But some one alway loves them--God or man. If man abandons, God himself takes them.
Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear Glean after what it can.
The long days are no happier than the short ones.
A poet not in love is out at sea; He must have a lay-figure.
The dew, 'Tis of the tears which stars weep, sweet with joy.
England! my country, great and free! Heart of the world, I leap to thee!
Corruption springs from light: 'tis one same power Creates, preserves, destroys; matter whereon It works, on e'er self-transmutative form, Common to now the living, now the dead.
And these are joys, like beauty, but skin deep.
Youth might be wise; we suffer less from pains than pleasures.
The sole equality on earth is death.
Any heart turned Godward feels more joyIn one short hour of prayer, than e'er was raisedBy all the feasts of earth since its foundation.
He hath no power that hath not power to use.
Simplicity is natures first step, and the last of art.
The value of a thought cannot be told.
I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.
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