Ah! two desires toss about The poet’s feverish blood; One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude.
English civilization the humanizing, the bringing into one harmonious and truly humane life, of the whole body of English society that is what interests me.
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron ’s struggle cease.
Weep bitterly over the dead, for he is worthy, and then comfort thyself; drive heaviness away: thou shall not do him good, but hurt thyself.
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell.
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school’d, self-scann’d, self-honour’d, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguess’d at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
What shelter to grow ripe is ours? What leisure to grow wise?
For poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact. The strongest part of our religion today is its unconscious poetry.
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!
Miracles do not happen.
For the creation of a masterwork of literature two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power of the moment, and the man is not enough without the moment.
Saw life steadily and saw it whole.
The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere to the subtle, contriving head.
All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the knowledge of nature is interesting to all men.
Six years-six little years-six drops of time.
ForTime, not Corydon, hath conquered thee.
The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;- on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born.