Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will’s somewhat – somewhat, too, the power – And thus we half-men struggle.
If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.
To me at least was never evening yet, but seemed far beautifuller than its day.
Good to forgive, Best to forget.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
I count life just a stuff To try the soul’s strength on.
Success in marriage is more than finding the right person: it is being the right person.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
God is the perfect poet.
Go practice if you please with men and women: leave a child alone for Christ’s particular love’s sake!
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
Graved inside of it, “Italy”.
Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.
So free we seem, so fettered we are!
It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.
Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it ‘Italy.’