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. . . In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
My heart leaps tip when I behold
A rainbow in the sky!
Myriads of daisies have shown forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the one
That, by the unrolling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.
No check, no stay this streamlet fears:
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
Not seldom clad in radiant vest
Deceitfully goes forth the dawn,
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
Nought but the heaven-directed spire.
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
One in whom persuasion and belief
Had ripened into faith, and faith become
A passionate intuition.
One of the heavenly days that cannot die.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge: it is immortal as the heart of men. If the labors of the men of science should ever create any revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the poet will then sleep no more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself. The remotest discoveries of the chemist, the botanist, or mineralogist will be as proper objects of the poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of the respective sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the time should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the being thus produced as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
Proud be the rose, with rain and dews her head impearling.
See, the Conqueror mounts in triumph,
See the King in royal state,
Riding on the clouds His chariot
To His heavenly palace-gate;
Hark, the choirs of angel voices
Joyful halleluiahs sing,
And the portals high are lifted,
To receive their heavenly King.
- [Ascension Day]
Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."
- [Architecture : Churches]
Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
That inward eye which is the bliss of solitude.
The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
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