Despair defies even despotism; there is That in my heart would make its way thro' hosts With levell'd spears.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
And to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.
Self defence is a virtue, Sole bulwark of all right.
'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? Gone glimmering through the dream of things that were First in the race that led to glory's goals They won, and pass'd away.
Poetry is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
He who ascends to mountain tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapp'd in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below.
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee From a maid in the pride of her purity.
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven, If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires,'t is to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you.
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm I thank thee, night for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breath, And love itself have rest.
Oh too convincing - dangerously dear - In woman's eye the unanswerable tear
Absence - that common cure of love.
Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs
Adversity is the first path to truth.
There is another old poet whose name I do not now remember who said, Adversity is the first path to truth
Adversity is the first path to truth; He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won the experience which is deemed so weighty
Man being reasonable must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication; Glory, the grape, love, gold - in these are sunk - The hopes of all men and of every nation
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.