Where music dwells lingering and wandering on as loth to die, like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof that they were born for immortality.
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
Where the statue stood of newton with his prism and silent face, the marble index of a mind for ever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.
With gentle hand touch -- for there is a spirit in the woods.
Whether we be young or old, our destiny, our being's heart and home, is with infinitude, and only there; with hope it is, hope that can never die, effort and expectation, and desire, and something evermore about to be.
With hope it is, hope that can never die, effort, and expectation, and desire, and something evermore about to be.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
With Nature never do they wage a foolish strife; they see a happy youth, and their old age is beautiful and free.
Who he was that piled these stones, and with the mossy sod first covered, and here taught this aged tree with its dark arms to form a circling bower, i well remember. ? he was one who owned no common soul. In youth by science nursed. And led by nature into a wild scene of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth a favoured being, knowing no desire which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, and scorn,? against all enemies prepared, all but neglect. The world, for so it thought, owed him no service; wherefore he at once with indignation turned himself away, and with the food of pride sustained his soul in solitude.
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he that every man in arms should wish to be?
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce of that serene companion, a good name, recovers not his loss; but walks with shame, with doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse.
Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
Written in Early Spring I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, nor thought of tender happiness betray.
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
Whatever is foretold by God will be done by man; but nothing will be done by man because it is foretold by God.
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant of such weak fibre that the treacherous air of absence withers what was once so fair?
Yet sometimes, when the secret cup of still and serious thought went round, it seemed as if he drank it up, he felt with spirit so profound.
When a damp fell round the path of Milton, in his hand the thing became a trumpet; whence he blew soul-animating strains - alas, too few!
Why do not words and kiss, and solemn pledge, And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge - Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that be.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; and mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign, is Solitude.