Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city
Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. 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 pleasure of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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 have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
The babe is at peace within the womb, the corpse is at rest within the tomb. We begin in what we end.
I cannot endure the horror, the evil, which comes to self in solitude.
It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.
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.
I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion, and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.
Thou demandest what is love? It is that powerful attraction towards all that we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves.
When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid - in which case all comment is superfluous - or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
All love is sweet Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.
I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
The odious and disgusting aristocracy of wealth is built upon the ruins of all that is good in chivalry or republicanism; and luxury is the forerunner of a barbarism scarcely capable of cure.
Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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