THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
Make not thyself the judge of any man.
Many ghosts, and forms of fright,
Have started from their graves to-night;
They have driven sleep from mine eyes away.
Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.
May-flowers blooming around him.
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.
Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf.
Nature alone is permanent.
Nature paints not
In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven
With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds
And flying vapors.
No endeavour is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing.
No literature is complete until the language in which it is written is dead.
No one it so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Noble souls, through dust and heat,
Rise from disaster and defeat
And conscious still of the divine
Within them, lie on earth supine
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
* * * * *
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act, in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Nothing is too late till the tired heart shad cease to palpitate.
Nothing with God can be accidental.
O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
O day of rest! how beautiful, how fair, how welcome to the weary and the old! day of the Lord! and truce of earthly care! day of the Lord, as all our days should be.
O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released
I breathe again uninterrupted breath!
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek
Call thee the lesser mystery, at the feast
Whereof the greater mystery is death.
O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!
O thou sculptor, painter, poet,
Take this lesson to thy heart;
That is best which lieth nearest;
Shape from that thy work of art.
O, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,--
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
O, though oft oppressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
Oh, how beautiful is love! Even thou that sneerest and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee,--thou too must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone, and confess that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public at what in private it reveres as one of the highest impulses of our nature; namely, love.
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