Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or flourish.
I live by Miracle.
Every kindness to another is a little death in the divine image.
They accumulate A world in which Man is by his nature the enemy of Man.
Now hear a plain fact: Swedenborg has not written one new truth. Now hear another: he has written all the old falsehoods.
I live in a hole here but God has a beautiful mansion for me elsewhere.
As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
Great things are done when men and mountains meet; this is not done by jostling in the street.
And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too.
Folly is the cloak of knavery.
The selfish, smiling fool, and the sullen, frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
Praise is the practice of Art.
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year. Little lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your soft wool; Let me kiss Your soft face; Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies.” “No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep.” “Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.” The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, And all the hills echoed.
Imagination, the real and eternal world of which this Vegetable Universe is but a faint shadow. What is the life of Man but Art and Science?
Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass. “Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Are given thee till the break of day.
The Jewish and Christian Testaments are an original derivation from the Poetic Genius.
So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? Or Love in a golden bowl?
Graze after thee, and weep. For, washed in life’s river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o’er the fold.