A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams – can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth’s bitter leaven Effaced forever.
Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.
Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.
One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
Truths that wake To perish never.