An intellectual hate is the worst.
Yet they that know all things but know That all this life can give us is A child's laughter, a woman's kiss.
For such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend.
The house ghost is usually a harmless and well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good luck to those who live with it.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.
Everything we look upon is blest.
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away
He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fadeand flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
An intellectual hatred is the worst.
Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?
The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.
Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.
Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.
What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?
Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood; And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes.
Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.
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