Make us happy and you make us good.
Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul’s wings never furled!
The peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph Swims bearing high above her head.
Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.
The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
Mid the sharp, short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip at the end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.
A pretty woman’s worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure.
There is nothing so unpardonable as to consent to a senseless, aimless, purposeless life.
As if true pride Were not also humble!
Death: the grand perhaps.
Thought is the soul of act.
I do what many dream of, all their lives.
Praise is deeper than the lips.
The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream.
Imperfection means perfection hid.
Tis looking downward makes one dizzy.
Man seeks his own good at the whole world’s cost.
A man in armor is his armor’s slave.
When pain ends, gain ends too.
Can we love but on condition that the thing we love must die?