But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
And if I drink oblivion of a day, / So shorten I the stature of my soul.
A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?
That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
Behold the life at ease; it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.
We know the degree of refinement in people by the matter they laugh at and the ring of the laugh.
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
Prayer for worldly goods is worse than fruitless, but prayer for strength of soul is that passion of the soul which catches the gift it seeks.
Days, when the ball of our vision Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun; When the graps on the bow was decision, And arrow and hand and eye were one; When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer, Came heaving for rapture ahead! - Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer As lights over mounds of the dead.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.
Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.
The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.
Comedy is a game played to throw reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized men and women, where we have no dust of the struggling outer world, no mire, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the representation convincing.
She [Comedy] it is who proposes the correcting of pretentiousness, of inflation, of dulness, and of the vestiges of rawness and grossness to be found among us. She is the ultimate civilizer, the polisher, a sweet cook.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.
The well of true wit is truth itself.
Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.
Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.
What a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life!
The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.
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