Every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid.
My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.
O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!
They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.
And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
My spirit is too weak – mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin’d pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave – thank God for the quiet grave – O! I can feel the cold earth upon me – the daisies growing over me – O for this quiet – it will be my first.
Where soil is, men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around...
No, no, I’m sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide.
I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.
A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.