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Slight are the outward signs of evil thought.
Slight withal may be the things which bring back on the heart the weight which it would fling aside forever.
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death.
So let them ease their hearts with prate of equal rights, which man never knew.
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven.
Society itself, which should create
Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for none is the true social art
Of the world's stoics--men without a heart.
Solitude has but one disadvantage--it is apt to give one too high an opinion of one's self. In the world we are sure to be often reminded of every known or supposed defect we may have.
Some good lessons
Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus,
Without whom Venus will not long attack us.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits,
While others have a genius turn'd for fits.
Soon or late love is his own avenger.
Sorrow is knowledge; they who know thee most must mourn the deepest over the fatal truth; the tree of knowledge is not that of life.
Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
Strike up the dance, the cava bowl fill high.
Suspicion is a heavy armor, and with its own weight impedes more than protects.
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth!
Sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
'T is a base abandonment of reason to resign our right of thought.
That anxious torture may I never feel,
Which doubtful, watches o'er a wandering heart.
O, who that bitter torment can reveal,
Or tell the pining anguish of that smart!
That awful pause, dividing life from death
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!
A moment all will be life again.
* * * * * one moment more,
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar.
That curse shall be--forgiveness!
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech.
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep;
Yet there, e'en there, O God, thy thunders sleep.
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness.
The busy have no time for tears.
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