Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.
Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.
His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight.
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.
There is no safety-net to protect against attraction.
Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.
When fate has allowed to any man more than one great gift, accident or necessity seems usually to contrive that one shall encumber and impede the other.
There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.
Where might is, the right is: Long purses make strong swords. Let weakness learn meekness: God save the House of Lords!
Love is more cruel than lust.
In friendship's fragrant garden, There are flowers of every hue. Each with its own fair beauty And its gift of joy for you. Friendship's Garden If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather.
His speech is a burning fire.
Despair the twin-born of devotion.
To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it; Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin.
When I hear that a personal friend has fallen into matrimonial courses, I feel the same sorrow as if I had heard of his lapsing into theism — a holy sorrow, unmixed with anger.
In hawthorn-time the heart grows light.
For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
The loves and hours of the life of a man, They are swift and sad, being born of the sea.
On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.
Faith speaks when hope is disassembled; faith lives when hope dies dead.
Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal; Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.
Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
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