Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
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.
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
I keep saying, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, you are as obscure as life is.
Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity.
The world hath failed to impart the joy our youth forebodes; failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.
Culture is the passion for sweetness and light, and (what is more) the passion for making them prevail.
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.
He will find one English book and one only, where, as in the "Iliad" itself, perfect plainness of speech is allied with perfect nobleness; and that book is the Bible.
Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
For eager teachers seized my youth, pruned my faith and trimmed my fire. Showed me the high, white star of truth, there bade me gaze and there aspire.
Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!
For science, God is simply the stream of tendency by which all things seek to fulfill the law of their being.
He spoke, and loos'd our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth.
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.
I am a Liberal, yet I am a Liberal tempered by experience, reflexion, and renouncement, and I am, above all, a believer in culture.
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.
On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray; Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chamberry, Dight with mantles gay, But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.
Nature's great law, and the law of all men's minds? To its own impulse every creature stirs: Live by thy light, and Earth will live by hers.
Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.
Waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
That which in England we call the middle class is in America virtually the nation.
We do not what we ought; What we ought not, we do; And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through; But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.
Genius is mainly an affair of energy, and poetry is mainly an affair of genius; therefore a nation whose spirit is characterized by energy may well be imminent in poetry - and we have Shakespeare.
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.
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