This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.
Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.
I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: