And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
The poetry of speech.
Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.
We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
Absence - that common cure of love.
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
Liberty - eternal spirit of the chainless mind
All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
I learned to love despair.
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.
I live, but live to die: and, living, see nothing to make death hateful, save an innate clinging, a loathsome and yet all invincible instinct of life, which I abhor, as I despise myself, yet cannot overcome — and so I live. Would I had never lived!
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years.
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
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