We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides: But tasks in hours of insight will'd Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.
Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The Field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent; hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play!
Culture is both an intellectual phenomenon and a moral one
All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the knowledge of nature is interesting to all men.
Men of culture are the true apostles of equality
Coleridge: poet and philosopher wrecked in a mist of opium.
With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern.
On the breast of that huge Mississippi of falsehood called History, a foam-bell more or less is no consequence.
Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!
Conduct is three-fourths of our life and its largest concern.
Philistinism! - We have not the expression in English. Perhaps we have not the word because we have so much of the thing.
Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.
It does not try to reach down to the level of inferior classes; it does not try to win them for this or that sect of its own, with ready-made judgments and watchwords of its own. It seeks to away with classes, to make the best that has been taught and known in the world current everywhere, to make all men live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light, where they may use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely--nourished, and not bound by them.
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, She needs not June for beauty's heightening.
France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme.
Ah! two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood; One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude.
Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fullness of the past, The years that are not more.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another!
Style ... is a peculiar recasting and heightening, under a certain condition of spiritual excitement, of what a man has to say, in such a manner as to add dignity and distinction to it.
I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference.
Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below!
The interpretations of science do not give us this intimate sense of objects as the interpretations of poetry give it; they appeal to a limited faculty, and not to the whole man. It is not Linnaeus or Cavendish or Cuvier who gives us the true sense of animals, or water, or plants, who seizes their secret for us, who makes us participate in their life; it is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.
Nor bring, to see me cease to live, Some doctor full of phrase and fame, To shake his sapient head, and give The ill he cannot cure a name.
The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere to the subtle, contriving head.
No, no! The energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing--only he His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
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