I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
The many fail: the one succeeds.
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove; In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Any man that walks the mead In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind.
As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play’d, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
For this is England’s greatest son, He that gain’d a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.
All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
A life of nothing’s nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.
The bearing and the training of a child Is woman’s wisdom.