To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind: I would deceive her And so leave her, But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!
None can usurp this height... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
In spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
The music, yearning like a God in pain.
The sweet converse of an innocent mind.
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
The poetry of earth is never dead.
My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd.
There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
Axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses: we read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
And then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest.
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temper'd with coolness.
But were there ever any Writh'd not of passed joy? The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies.