O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man; Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow’s weight.
Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream.
Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.
If a woman shows too often the Medusa’s head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
Every author has the whole past to contend with; all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
All things are symbols.
Youth wrenches the sceptre from old age, and sets the crown on its own head before it is entitled to it.
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.
I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.
How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God’s omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?
Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!
O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!
Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot’s brain remembered words Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his dreams!
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.
Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
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.