THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
A globe of dew
Filling, in the morning new,
Some eyed flower, whose young leaves waken
On an unimagined world;
Constellated suns unshaken,
Orbits measureless are furl'd
In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gathered there
To tremble, gleam and disappear.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
Ah! what a divine religion might be found out if charity were really made the principle of it instead of faith!
Alas! I have nor hope nor health
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found.
All of as who are worth anything spend our manhood in unlearning the follies or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.
All the tree-tops lay asleep, like green waves on the sea.
And the spring arose on the garden fair like the spirit of Love felt everywhere.
As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs,
To the silent wilderness.
- [Forests : Solitude]
Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood.
Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
Fear not the future, weep not for the past.
Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn all earthly things but virtue.
He gave man speech, and speech created thought, which is the measure of the universe.
Hell is a city much like London--
A populous and a smoky city;
There are all sorts of people undone,
And there is little or no fun done;
Small justice shown, and still less pity.
* * * * *|Lawyers--judges--old hobnobbers
Bishops--great and little robbers--
Men of glory in the wars.
His fine wit makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
Hope will make thee young; for Hope and Youth are children of one mother.
I love all waste and solitary places.
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet.
Like the young moon,
When on the sunlit limits of the night
Her white shell trembles amid crimson air,
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might,
Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear
The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim form
Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair.
Love is free; to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed; such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.
Music, where soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.
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