We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.
The poet's pen is the true divining rod Which trembles towards the inner founts of feeling; Bringing to light and use, else hid from all, The many sweet clear sources which we have of good and beauty in our own deep bosoms; And marks the variations of all mind As does the needle.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: