Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
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.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.
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.
The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
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!
Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.
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