Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, - but it returneth!
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs, - To the silent wilderness, Where the soul need not repress Its music.
The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
Sometimes it's better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
Love withers under constraints: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.
a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
The crime of inquiry is one which religion never has forgiven.
I love tranquil solitude.
Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.
Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
If he is infinitely good, what reason should we have to fear him? If he is infinitely wise, what doubts should we have concerning our future? If he knows all, why warn him of our needs and fatigue him with our prayers? If he is everywhere, why erect temples to him? If he is just, why fear that he will punish the creatures that he has filled with weaknesses?
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!
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