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.
Wild is the music of the autumnal wind among the faded woods.
Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; forgive me if the phrase be strong;? a Poet worthy of Rob Roy must scorn a timid song.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things and battles long ago.
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance.
Where are your books? - that light bequeathed to beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed from dead men to their kind.
Wisdom and spirit of the Universe! Thou soul is the eternity of thought! That giv'st to forms and images a breath and everlasting motion! Not in vain by day or star-light thus from by first dawn of childhood didst thou intertwine for me the passions that build up our human soul, not with the mean and vulgar works of man, but with high objects, with enduring things, with life and nature, purifying thus the elements of feeling and of thought, and sanctifying, by such discipline both pain and fear, until we recognize a grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Wisdom married to immortal verse.
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, festively she puts forth in trim array.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony.
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.