The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.
Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!
And I must bear What is ordained with patience, being aware Necessity doth front the universe With an invincible gesture.
The tyrant should take heed to what he doth, Since every victim-carrion turns to use, And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth, Against each piled injustice.
When God helps all the workers for His world, The singers shall have help of Him, not last.
You believe In God, for your part?--that He who makes Can make good things from ill things, best from worst, As men plant tulips upon dunghills when They wish them finest.
Earth may embitter, not remove, The love divinely given; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And lead us nearer heaven.
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
For none can express thee, though all should approve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.
Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.
Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.
The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)
Books are men of higher stature.
Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.
But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not.
Sing, seraph with the glory! heaven is high. Sing, poet with the sorrow! earth is low. The universe's inward voices cry "Amen" to either song of joy and woe. Sing, seraph, poet! sing on equally!
How joyously the young sea-mew Lay dreaming on the waters blue, Whereon our little bark had thrown A little shade, the only one; But shadows ever man pursue.
Many a crown Covers bald foreheads.
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!
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