And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Heaven’s ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
I have neither curiosity, interest, pain nor pleasure, in anything, good or evil, they can say of me. I feel only a slight disgust, and a sort of wonder that they presume to write my name.
Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day!
O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below?
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.
I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.
Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, All that can adorn and bless Art thou let deeds, not words, express Thine exceeding loveliness.
When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid – in which case all comment is superfluous – or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me- who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!