Damn description, it is always disgusting.
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
She was like me in lineaments-- her eyes Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-- which I had not; And tenderness-- but that I had for her; Humility-- and that I never had. Her faults were mine-- her virtues were her own-- I loved her, and destroy'd her!
My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.
I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people - being always excited.
They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.
It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims; I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged.
He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
The French courage proceeds from vanity
From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods.
I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.
He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others.
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