Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.
For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.
The noonday quiet holds the hill.
Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? ...Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? ‘The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.’ - Tithonus
Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.
A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: