What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.
This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
A louse in the locks of literature.
He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.
After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.
Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.
There’s no glory like those who save their country.
Faith is believing what we cannot prove.
Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
Rain, rain, and sun! A rainbow in the sky!
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.
Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.
The woman is so hard Upon the woman.