Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!
Lose who may-I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!
What joy is better than the news of friends?
Let friend trust friends, and love demand love's like.
The moment eternal - just that and no more - When ecstasy's utmost we clutch at the core While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut, and lips meet!
A man in armor is his armor's slave.
Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white-we call it black.
O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.
What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven; Works done least rapidly Art most cherishes.
Praise is deeper than the lips
I do what many dream of, all their lives
Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart.
Graved inside of it, "Italy".
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.
Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
A man in armour is his armour's slave.
How good is life, the mere living!
It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
Is your love for the Lord sufficient to give all your time and talents to his work?
The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.
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