Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.
But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not.
I worked with patience which means almost power.
And I must bear What is ordained with patience, being aware Necessity doth front the universe With an invincible gesture.
He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.
The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
Books succeed; and lives fail.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.
And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"
For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!
The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.
And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.
So mothers have God's license to be missed.
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!
We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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