Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.
I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
You would attain to the divine perfection.
With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.
I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.
All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.
Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!
Life is the gift of God, and is divine.
A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts
Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live.
The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.
I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.
I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness.
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.
Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.
It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.
Make not thyself the judge of any man.
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.
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