Better not be at all than not be noble.
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year you shall not die.
For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.
That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.
. . . More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheeps or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Not only for themselves but for those who call them friend? For so this whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.
The white flower of a blameless life.
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
Too much wit makes the world rotten.
What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.
Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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