I hold that when a person dies / His soul returns again to earth; / Arrayed in some new flesh disguise / Another mother gives him birth / With sturdier limbs and brighter brain.
The days that make us happy make us wise
I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
To most of us the future seems unsure. But then it always has been; and we who have seen great changes must have great hopes.
The three foundations of judgement: Bold Design, Constant Practice, and Frequent Mistakes.
Success is the brand on the brow of the man who aimed too low.
Man's body is faulty, his mind untrustworthy, but his imagination has made him remarkable.
It may be that we cease; we cannot tell.
Even if we cease, life is a miracle.
Humans consist of body, mind and imagination. Our bodies are faulty, our minds untrustworthy, but our imagination has made us remarkable.
And he who gives a child a treat Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street, And he who gives a child a home Builds palaces in Kingdom come, And she who gives a baby birth Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the West wind, and daffodils.
Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down.
All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
God dropped a spark down into everyone, And if we find and fan it to a blaze, It'll spring up and glow, like--like the sun, And light the wandering out of stony ways.
Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.
God warms his hands at man's heart when he prays.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
Life is a long headache in a noisy street.
Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.
But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.
Heaven to me's a fair blue stretch of sky, Earth's jest a dusty road.
From '41 to '51I was my folk's contrary son;I bit my father's hand right throughAnd broke my mother's heart in two.
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong; The meaning shows in the defeated thing.
In the dark room where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.
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