The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.
Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.
Love is the root of creation; God’s essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.
O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!
There rises the moon, broad and tranquil, through the branches of a walnut tree on a hill opposite. I apostrophize it in the words of Faust; “O gentle moon, that lookest for the last time upon my agonies!” – or something to that effect.
Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe!
The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.
Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.
Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
My own thoughts Are my companions.
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.
The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.
The natural alone is permanent.
Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.
Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.