Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delvid earth…
Shakespeare led a life of allegory; his works are the comments on it.
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;/ And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed
Love in a hut, with water and a crust, / Is – Love forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust.
The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!
My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely...
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world – there I am a child – there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance – I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child – Some think me middling, others...
Now a soft kiss – Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
Life is but a day:A fragile dewdrop on its perilious wayFrom a tree’s summit
I have been astonished that men could die martyrsfor their religion–I have shuddered at it,I shudder no more.I could be martyred for my religion.Love is my religionand I could die for that.I could die for you.My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To BeWhen I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact’ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,...
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth...
For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.