I am not much of a hand at love songs, you see I mingle metaphysics with even this, but perhaps in this age of Philosophy that may be excused.
O! I burn with impatience for the moment of the dissolution of intolerance; it has injured me.
Until the mind can love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the unconscious passenger tramples into dust.
Belief is involuntary; nothing involuntary is meritorious or reprehensible. A man ought not to be considered worse or better for his belief.
In proportion as a man is selfish, so far has he receded from the motive which constitutes virtue.
Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes.
The pale stars are gone! For the sun, their swift shepherd, To their folds them compelling, In the depths of the dawn, Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and the flee Beyond his blue dwelling, As fawns flee the leopard.
I cannot endure the horror, the evil, which comes to self in solitude.
I know the cause of all human disappointment – worldly prejudice.
And bid them love each other and be blest: And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves, And come and be my guest, – for I am Love’s.
I love Love – though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee – Thou art love and life! Oh come, Make once more my heart thy home.
Love’s Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war.
A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.
I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.
Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings.
But hope will make thee young, for Hope and Youth Are children of one mother, even Love.
In fact, the truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
My father Time is weak and gray With waiting for a better day; See how idiot-like he stands, Fumbling with his palsied hands!
The flood of time is rolling on; We stand upon its brink, whilst they are gone To glide in peace down death’s mysterious stream. Have ye done well?
Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.