It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.
Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
The well of true wit is truth itself.
I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
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.
Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
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.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.
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.
A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.
Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.
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.
Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.
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.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!
For singing till his heaven fills, 'Tis love of earth that he instills, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which over flows To lift us with him as he goes.
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