And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
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.
So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
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.
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
The last great Englishman is low.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: