Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
Paracelsus At times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages’ way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out — not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again.
But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.
I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.
All's love, yet all's law.
I hold that a man should strive to the uttermost for his life's set prize.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.
Never brag, never bluster, never blush.
Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;....and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.
For life, with all its yields of joy and woe Is just a chance o' the prize of learning love.
Outside are the storms and strangers: we — Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, — I and she!
Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.
When is man strong until he feels alone?
Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.
Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
You never know what life means till you die; even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
From the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea.
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