Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?
We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
Give me women, wine and snuff Until I cry out ‘hold, enough!’ You may do so san objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard then aye shall be My beloved Trinity.
Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Load every rift with ore.
I always made an awkward bow.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
O fret not after knowledge – I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge – I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man’s life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving...
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush’d and smooth!
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings.
The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, – It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.