Necessity, like electricity, is in ourselves and all things, and no more without us than within us.
Night comes, world-jewelled, . . . The stars rush forth in myriads as to wage War with the lines of Darkness; and the moon, Pale ghost of Night, comes haunting the cold earth After the sun's red sea-death--quietless.
The wind breathes not, and the wave Walks softly as above a grave.
How slight a chance may raise or sink a soul!
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.
The hero is the world-man, in whose heart One passion stands for all, the most indulged.
Sorrow is a stone that crushes a single bearer to the ground, while two are able to carry it with ease.
Kindness is wisdom. There is none in life But needs it and may learn.
Surely the stars are images of love.
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.
If all were rich, gold would be penniless.
We live not to ourselves, our work is life.
Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more.
The heart is its own Fate.
Nature means Necessity.
Hell is more bearable than nothingness.
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.
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.
Men might be better if we better deemed of them.
Doubt is the shadow of truth.
When pride thaws, look for floods.
I run the gauntlet of a file of doubts, Each one of which down hurls me to the ground.
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