His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity-Zekle.
To win the secret of a weed's plain heart.
Wealth may be an excellent thing, for it means power, and it means leisure, it means liberty.
I don't believe in princerple, But oh I du in interest.
The wisest man could ask no more of fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few; Nothing to court in Church, or World, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great.
The child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair.
Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past.
Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving.
Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth On war's red techstone rang true metal; Who ventered life an' love an' youth For the gret prize o' death in battle?
It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.
Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.
Earth's biggest country 's gut her soul, An' risen up earth's greatest nation.
Heaven is neither here nor there to me. Everywhere and nowhere. Just not in between, But I believe in Heaven.
In the earliest ages science was poetry, as in the later poetry has become science.
The one thing finished in this hasty world.
Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
The idol is the measure of the worshipper.
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame; Ev'y thin' thet' s done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.
Earth's noblest thing,-a woman perfected.
Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite And to our ages drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.
It is mediocrity which makes laws and sets mantraps and spring-guns in the realm of free song, saying thus far shalt thou go and no further.
The victory's in believing.
Did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive?
He who esteems the Virginia reel A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery Than crushing His African children with slavery, Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillon Are mounted for hell on the devil's own pillion, Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, Approaches the heart through the door of the toes.
The future works out great men's destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever.
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