Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner’s eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
A poet does not see or hear or feel things that others do not see or hear or feel. What makes a person a poet is the ability to recall what she has felt and seen and heard. And to relive it and describe it in such a way that others can then see and feel and hear again what they may have missed.
For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor... To this tendency of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony.
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;.
The heavy weight of many a weary day Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
I wandered lonely as a cloud.
The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and love it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.
Look at you comforting others with the words you wish to hear.
In nature there is nothing melancholy.