Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.
Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.
OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.
Unless you can feel when the song is done No other is sweet in its rhythm; Unless you can feel when left by one That all men else go with him.
Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen."
We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.
Some people always sigh in thanking God.
We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.
But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
For none can express thee, though all should approve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.
Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.
It is not merely the likeness which is precious... but the association and the sense of nearness involved in the thing... the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever! It is the very sanctification of portraits I think - and it is not at all monstrous in me to say that I would rather have such a memorial of one I dearly loved, than the noblest Artist's work ever produced.
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes; Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”
Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem; The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born: The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue: The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold: So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.
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