I am a part of all that I have met.
I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point. ... Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. ... Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.
A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.
My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
I found Him in the shining of the stars.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,While the stars burn, the moons increase,And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear; I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait."
I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.
God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.
Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
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