A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.
And if I drink oblivion of a day, / So shorten I the stature of my soul.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.
I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
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.
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.
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 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.
The well of true wit is truth itself.
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