English Critic, Essayist, Poet, Educator
English Critic, Essayist, Poet, Educator
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on.
We shall renew the battle in the plain Tomorrow?red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see.
Wherever there is cupidity, there the blessing of the Gospel cannot rest. The actual poor, therefore, may altogether fail to be objects of that blessing, the actual rich may be the objects of it in the highest degree.
Yes: in the sea of life enisl?d, with echoing straits between us thrown, dotting the shoreless watery wild, we mortal millions live alone.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, but once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
We, in some unknown Power's employ, move on a rigorous line; can neither, when we will, enjoy, nor, when we will, resign.
Whispering from her [Oxford's] towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age...Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!
Yet they, believe me, who await no gifts from Chance, have conquer'd Fate.
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, and falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.
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.
Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today.
You will be out of the lives of free people everywhere. Your face will be off the coins and with that, your arrogant, undue influence. Everywhere... Everywhere... Every...
Unbreachable the fort of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; and strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, and near and real the charm of thy repose, and night as welcome as a friend would fall.
Weep bitterly over the dead, for he is worthy, and then comfort thyself; drive heaviness away: thou shall not do him good, but hurt thyself.
Who ordered, that their longing's fire should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? Who renders vain their deep desire?? A God, a God their severance ruled! And bade betwixt their shores to be the unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death. It dreams a rest, if not more deep, more grateful than this marble sleep; It hears a voice within it tell: Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well. 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, But 'tis not what our youth desires.
This truth?to prove, and make thine own: ?Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.?
Unquiet souls! Min the dark fermentation of earth, in the never idle workshop of nature, in the eternal movement, ye shall find yourselves again.
What actions are the most excellent? Those, certainly, which most powerfully appeal to the great primary human affections: to those elementary feelings which subsist permanently in the race, and which are independent of time. These feelings are permanent and the same; that which interests them is permanent and the same also.
Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind? He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men, saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen, and Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Thou hast no right to bliss.
Up the still, glistening beaches, up the creeks we will hie, over banks of bright seaweed the ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, at the white, sleeping town; at the church on the hill-side? and then come back down. Singing: there dwells a loved one, but cruel is she! She left lonely forever the kings of the sea.
What helps it now, that Byron bore, with haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, through Europe to the Aetolian shore the pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, and Europe made his woe her own?
Whoever sets himself to see things as they are will find himself one of a very small circle; but it is only by this small circle resolutely doing its own work that adequate ideas will ever get current at all.
Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, light half-believers of our casual creeds, who never deeply felt, nor clearly will?d, whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, whose vague resolves never have been fulfill?d; for whom each year we see breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; who hesitate and falter life away, and lose to-morrow the ground won to-day? Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too?