Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.
Deep truth is imageless.
Mild is the slow necessity of death; The tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, Without a groan, almost without a fear, Resigned in peace to the necessity; Calm as a voyager to some distant land, And full of wonder, full of hope as he.
It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.
If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!
Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams...
Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea.
Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.
Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.
To be omnipotent but friendless is to reign.
Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, – a people starved and stabbed in the untilled field...
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
The psychological and moral comfort of a presence at once humble and understanding-this is the greatest benefit that the dog has bestowed upon man.
How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.
Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
Jesus Christ represented God as the principle of all good, the source of all happiness, the wise and benevolent Creator and Preserver of all living things. But the interpreters of his doctrines have confounded the good and the evil principle.
I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.
Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.