You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.
How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
Here at the quiet limit of the world.
The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
The many fail: the one succeeds.
All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
Love will conquer at the last.
I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.
Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.
And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.
The mighty hopes that make us men.
A louse in the locks of literature.
Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.
And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
The thrall in person may be free in soul
Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
Courtesy wins woman all as well. As valor may, but he that closes both is perfect.
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.
To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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