Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.
Come to me in my dreams, and thenBy day I shall be well again!For so the night will more than payThe hopeless longings of the day.
Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.
But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,But often, in the din of strife,There rises an unspeakable desireAfter the knowledge of our buried life;A thirst to spend our fire and restless forceIn tracking out our true, original course.
Alas, is even Love too weak to unlock the heart and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel?
The sea is calm tonight.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits;- on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
For rigorous teachers seized my youth,And purged its faith, and trimmed its fire,Showed me the high, white star of Truth,There bade me gaze, and there aspire.Even now their whispers pierce the gloom’What dost thou in this living tomb?
For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm’d its fire, Show’d me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: What dost thou in this living tomb?
It is so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.
Poetry is simply the most beautiful impressive and widely effective mode of saying things.
The nice sense of measure is certainly not one of Nature’s gifts to her English children … we have all of us yielded to infatuation at some moment of our lives.
Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun to have lived light in the spring to have loved to have thought to have done?
Resolve to be thyself and know that who finds himself loses his misery.
They who await no gifts from chance have conquered fate.
We forget because we must And not because we will.
Nature with equal mind sees all her sons at play sees man control the wind the wind sweep man away.
Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald with a baldness full of grandeur.
Resolve to be thyself … he who finds himself loses his misery!
Resolve to be thyself … he who finds himself loses his misery!
Resolve to be thyself and know that he who finds himself loses his misery.
The pursuit of the perfect then is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
This strange disease of modern life with its sick hurry its divided aims.
Who hesitate and falter life away and lose tomorrow the ground won today.
Poetry is simply the most beautiful, impressive, and widely effective mode of saying things.
Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.
The freethinking of one age is the common sense of the next.
To have the sense of creative activity is the great happiness and the great proof of being alive.
Poetry a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty.
Conduct is three-fourths of our life and its largest concern.