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In her starry shade of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn the language of another world.
In reading authors, when you find
Bright passages, that strike your mind,
And which, perhaps, you may have reason
To think on, at another season,
Be not contented with the sight,
But take them down in black and white;
Such a respect is wisely shown,
As makes another's sense one's own.
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws the heart to show the effect, but not the cause.
In that instant, o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years.
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar!
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear.
It is solitude should teach us how to die.
It is strange, but true; for truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.
It is to be hoped that, with all the modern improvements, a mode will be discovered of getting rid of bores; for it is too bad that a poor wretch can punished for stealing your pockethandkerchief or gloves, and that no punishment can be inflicted on those who steal your time, and with it your temper and patience, as well as the bright thoughts that might have entered into your mind (like the Irishman who lost the fortune before he had got it), but were frightened away by the bore.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
"Kiss" rhymes to "bliss" in fact, as well as verse.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Leaves us doubly serious shortly after.
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, its portals foul;
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall,
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
Look on me in my sleep,
Or watch my watchings--come and sit by me!
My solitude is solitude no more,
But peopled with the furies;--I have gnash'd
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;--I have pray'd
For madness as a blessing--'tis denied me.
Love has made its best interpreter a sigh.
Love is old, old as eternity, but not outworn; with each new being born or to be born.
Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Man's conscience is the oracle of God!
Many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, in smiles that least befit those who wear them most.
Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine--
A sad, sour sober beverage--by time
Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor
Down to a very homely household savor.
May no marble bestow the splendor of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask--all I wish--is a tear.
May the grass wither from thy feet; the woods
Deny thee shelter! earth a home! the dust
A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her God!
Melancholy is a fearful gift. What is it but the telescope of truth!
Melancholy spreads itself betwixt heaven and earth, like envy between man and man, and is an everlasting mist.
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