Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Who dares To say that he alone has found the truth?
I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.
Truly, this world can go on without us, if we would but think so.
Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.
Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.
It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.
An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.
God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.
However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure.
The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.
Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.
With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!
People demand freedom only when they have no power.
All the means of action -- the shapeless masses -- the materials -- lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.
The soul never grows old.
For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.
Life like an empty dream flits by.
In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
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