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My heart is its own grave!
My tears are buried in my heart, like cave-locked fountains sleeping.
Oh! only those
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry,
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure.
Oh, no! my heart can never be
Again in lightest hopes the same;
The love that lingers there for thee
Hath more of ashes than of flame.
Oh, only those whose souls have felt this one idolatry can tell how precious is the slightest thing affection gives and hallows.
One of the greatest of all mental pleasures is to have our thoughts often divined: ever entered into with sympathy.
Pure as the snow the summer sun--
Never at noon hath look 'd upon--
Deep, as is the diamond wave,
Hidden in the desert cave--Changeless, as the greenest leaves
Of the wreath the cypress weaves--
Hopeless, often, when most fond--
Without hope or fear beyond
Its own pale fidelity--
And this woman's love can be.
Sneering springs out of the wish to deny; and wretched must that state of mind be that wishes to take refuge in doubt.
So much to win, so much to lose,
No marvel that I fear to choose.
Social life is filled with doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, when the imagination is dethroned, is turned to weariness and ennui.
Society is like a large piece of frozen water; and skating well is the great art of social life.
The dream on the pillow,
That flits with the day,
The leaf of the willow
A breath wears away;
The dust on the blossom,
The spray on the sea;
Ay,--ask thine own bosom--
Are emblems of thee.
The heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye.
The rich know not how hard it is to be of needful rest and needful food debarred.
The stars are so far, far away!
The wind has a language, I would I could learn!
Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern,
Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song,
And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along,
And the forest is lull'd by the dreamy strain,
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,
And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
These are the spiders of society;
They weave their petty webs of lies and sneers,
And lie themselves in ambush for the spoil,
The web seems fair, and glitters in the sun,
And the poor victim winds him in the toil
Before he dreams of danger or of death.
Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.
Thy voice is sweet as if it took its music form thy face.
April's loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grow in the vale,
Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,--
None by the dew of the twilight wet,
So sweet as the deep-blue violet.
What is life? A gulf of troubled waters, where the soul, like a vexed bark, is tossed upon the waves of pain and pleasure by the wavering breath of passions.
The apple blossoms' shower of pearl,
Though blent with rosier hue,
As beautiful as woman's blush,
As evanescent too.
- Apple Blossoms [Apple Blossoms]
Childhood, whose very happiness is love.
- Erinna [Childhood]
A brier rose, whose buds
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee.
- The Oak (l. 17) [Wild Roses]
We might have been--these are but common words,
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing.
- Three Extracts from the Diary of a Week
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