THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
Were with his heart. and that was far away.
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay,
And taught him when to be reserved or free.
How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will,
Till our mortality predominates,
And men are--what thy name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other.
How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring
The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's stroke
Flung the billows back from my drench'd hair,
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup rising o'er
The waves as they rose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me.
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave!
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine to--not defend.
How the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?
How the giant element from rock to rock leaps with delirious bound!
However boldly their warm blood was spilt,
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt;
And this they knew and felt, at least the one,
The leader of the hand he had undone,--
Who, born for better things, had madly set
His life upon a cast, which linger'd yet.
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
- from Moore's "Life of Bryon" [Fame]
I know that there are angry spirits
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason,
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out
Muffled to whisper curses to the night;
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians,
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns.
But live to die: and living, see no thing
To make death hateful, save an ornate clinging,
A loathsome and yet all invincible
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome--And so I live.
I loved her from my boyhood; she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art,
Had stamp'd her image in me.
I make a declaration every spring,
Of reformation ere the year run out,
But somehow this my vestal vary takes wing.
I must sleep now.
- his dying words [Death]
I own my natural weakness; I have not
Yet learn'd to think of discriminate murder
Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight
Of blood, which spouts through hoary scalps, is not,
To me, a thing or triumph, nor the death
Of men surprised, a glory.
I say the sun is a most glorious sight,
I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late
I have sat up on purpose all the night,
Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate;
And so all ye, who would be in the right
In health and purse, begin your day to date
From daybreak and when coffin'd at four-score,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
I tell the tale as it was told to me.
I wish'd but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new and dear,
I wish'd it then, I wish it still,
Despair is stronger than my will.
If that you have a former friend for foe.
If we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Immortality o'ersweeps all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peals, like the eternal thunder of the deep, into my ears this truth: Thou livest forever!
In aught that tries the heart, how few withstand the proof.
In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve,
As what abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.
Displaying page 6 of 34 for this author: << Prev Next >> 1 2 3 4 5  7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34