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.
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
I cannot endure the horror, the evil, which comes to self in solitude.
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.
Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city
The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes - are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
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.
I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adoption of vegetable diet, and pure water has not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experiment has been fairly tried.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day!
Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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.
All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: