Education is not about filling a pail, it's about lighting a fire.
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman's gaze.
Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse-- The seeming needs of my fool-driven land; Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Than this accustomed toil.
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
Great literature has always been written in a like spirit, and is, indeed, the Forgiveness of Sin, and when we find it becoming the Accusation of Sin, as in George Eliot, who plucks her Tito in pieces with as much assurance as if he had been clockwork, literature has begun to change into something else.
What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?
For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.
And God would bid His warfare cease, Saying all things were well; And softly make a rosy peace, A peace of Heaven with Hell.
The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.
I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.
Education is not filling
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
If Michael, leader of God's host When Heaven and Hell are met, Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post He would his deeds forget.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone this book or that, come to this hallowed place where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon; Ireland's history in their lineaments trace; think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was I had such friends.
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.
And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone.
O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.
Though I have many words, What woman's satisfied, I am no longer faint Because at her side? O who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
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