The hero is the world-man, in whose heart One passion stands for all, the most indulged.
The poet's pen is the true divining rod Which trembles towards the inner founts of feeling; Bringing to light and use, else hid from all, The many sweet clear sources which we have of good and beauty in our own deep bosoms; And marks the variations of all mind As does the needle.
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed, So poets live upon the living light.
Kindness is wisdom. There is none in life But needs it and may learn.
It is fine to stand upon some lofty mountain thought, and feel the spirit stretch into a view.
For ivy climbs the crumbling hall To decorate decay.
The death-change comes. Death is another life. We bow our heads At going out, we think, and enter straight Another golden chamber of the king's Larger than this we leave, and lovelier. And then in shadowy glimpses, disconnect, The story, flower-like, closes thus its leaves. The will of God is all in all. He makes, Destroys, remakes, for His own pleasure, all.
See the sun! God's crest upon His azure shield, the Heavens.
If all were rich, gold would be penniless.
The heart is its own Fate.
We live not to ourselves, our work is life.
Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more.
Hell is more bearable than nothingness.
Nature means Necessity.
The strongest passion which I have is honor.
I cannot be content with less than heaven; Living, and comprehensive of all life. Thee, universal heaven, celestial all; Thee, sacrjd seat of intellective time; Field of the soul 's best wisdom : home of truth , Star-throned.
What men call accident is God's own part.
When pride thaws, look for floods.
The truth is perilous never to the true, Nor knowledge to the wise; and to the fool, And to the false, error and truth alike, Error is worse than ignorance.
Star canto: star speaks light, and world to world Repeats the passage of the universe To God; the name of Christ--the one great word Well worth all languages in earth or heaven.
Doubt is the shadow of truth.
I run the gauntlet of a file of doubts, Each one of which down hurls me to the ground.
Men might be better if we better deemed of them.
I cannot be content with less than heaven.
Look on the bee upon the wing 'mong flowers; How brave, how bright his life! then mark, him hiv'd, Cramp'd, cringing in his self-built, social cell, Thus it is in the world-hive; most where men Lie deep in cities as in drifts.
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