The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
That which we are, we are.
And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
The mighty hopes that make us men.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.
Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.
Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
The thrall in person may be free in soul
Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.
And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches, And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
Man is man, and master of his fate.
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