This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
Life is the gift of God, and is divine.
Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
Let us, then, be what we are; speak what we think; and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth.
Make not thyself the judge of any man.
The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.
However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure.
Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.
Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.
Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.
As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre.
The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.
If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.
My Book and Heart Shall never part.
That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.
Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance Attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth In nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
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