It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
The greater person is one of courtesy.
The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again
This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment.
Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.
Whate'er thy joys, they vanish with the day: Whate'er thy griefs, in sleep they fade away, To sleep! to sleep! Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past: Sleep, happy soul, all life will sleep at last.
The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.
Either sex alone is half itself.
And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
A louse in the locks of literature.
Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?
Any man that walks the mead In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind.
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
Authority forgets a dying king.
I can't be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)
Love will conquer at the last.
You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.
All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.
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