Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
It is - last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man
The sophist sneers: Fool, take Thy pleasure, right or wrong! The pious wail: Forsake A world these sophists throng! Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man.
Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity.
I keep saying, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, you are as obscure as life is.
Spare me the whispering, crowded room, the friends who come and gape and go, the ceremonious air of gloom - all, which makes death a hideous show.
Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
And each day brings it's pretty dust, Our soon-choked souls to fll And we forget because we must, And not because we will.
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
ForTime, not Corydon, hath conquered thee.
Six years-six little years-six drops of time.
Thought and science follow their own law of development; they are slowly elaborated in the growth and forward pressure of humanity, in what Shakespeare calls ...The prophetic soul, Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.
Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun.
The world hath failed to impart the joy our youth forebodes; failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.
Ah love, let us be true to one another, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams; so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy nor love nor life.
Unquiet souls. In the dark fermentation of earth, in the never idle workshop of nature, in the eternal movement, yea shall find yourselves again.
Without poetry our science will appear incomplete, and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy will be replaced by poetry.
When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bow'd our head and held our breath. He taught us little; but our soul Had felt his like a thunder roll. . . . We watch'd the fount of fiery life Which serv'd for that Titanic life.
Was Christ a man like us?-Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!
But so many books thou readest, But so many schemes thou breedest, But so many wishes feedest, That thy poor head almost turns.
The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Sanity -- that is the great virtue of the ancient literature; the want of that is the great defect of the modern, in spite of its variety and power.
Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Religion--that voice of the deepest human experience.
Truth illuminates and gives joy; and it is by the bond of joy, not of pleasure, that men's spirits are indissolubly held.
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