Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!
A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
A poem round and perfect as a star.
Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.
My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.
Men and women make their own beauty or their own ugliness. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton speaks in one of his novels of a man "who was uglier than he had any business to be;" and, if we could but read it, every human being carries his life in his face, and is good-looking or the reverse as that life has been good or evil. On our features the fine chisels of thought and emotion are eternally at work.
And in any case, to the old man, when the world becomes trite, the triteness arises not so much from a cessation as from a transference of interest. What is taken from this world is given to the next. The glory is in the east in the morning, it is in the west in the afternoon, and when it is dark the splendour is irradiating the realm of the under-world. He would only follow.
If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out in death.
The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning—first fallen flake of the coming snows of age—is a disagreeable thing.... So are flying twinges of gout, shortness of breath on the hill-side, the fact that even the moderate use of your friend's wines at dinner upsets you. These things are disagreeable because they tell you that you are no longer young—that you have passed through youth, are now in middle age, and faring onward to the shadows in which, somewhere, a grave is hid.
Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
Your death and my death are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either.
The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.
Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide.
There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet: One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more.
The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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