Great Throughts Treasury

This site is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Alan William Smolowe who gave birth to the creation of this database.

Related Quotes

Thomas Merton

I refuse to be misled by any kind of a mirage about any alleged success of what I write. Those things are too easily exaggerated, and even when they are true, they always mean less than they seem to.

Bride | Heart | Love | Silence | World |

Thomas Nagel

Even if life as a whole is meaningless, perhaps that's nothing to worry about.

Altruism | Justification | Man | Pain | People | Question | Reason | Wants | Understand |

Thomas Paine

One of the strongest natural proofs of the folly of hereditary right in kings is, that Nature disapproves it; otherwise she would not so frequently turn it into ridicule by giving mankind an ass in place of a lion.

Fate | Invention | Money | Uncertainty | Fate | Value |

Thomas Otway

Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.

Thomas Merton

There remains always the hope that man will finally, after many mistakes and even disasters, learn to disarm and to make peace, recognizing that he must live at peace with his brother.

Day | Life | Life | Man | Mind | Prayer | Time |

Thomas Paine

But it is necessary to the happiness of man, that he be mentally faithful to himself. Infidelity does not consist in believing, or in disbelieving; it consists in professing to believe what he does not believe.

Children | Heart | Property | Rank | Spirit | Title | Wife | Child | Parent |

William Henley, fully William Ernest Henley

There's a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad. ... Do you not know it yet? For deeds undone Rnakle and snarl and hunger for their due, Till there seems naught so despicable as you In all the grin o' the sun. Like an old shoe The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie About the beach of Time, till by and by Death, that derides you too -- Death, as he goes His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray, With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way And then -- and then, who knows But the kind Grave Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, In that black bridewell working out his term, Hanker and grope and crave? "Poor fool that might -- That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, Think of it, here and thus made over to me In the implacable night!" And writhing, fain And like a triumphing lover, he shall take, His fill where no high memory lives to make His obscene victory vain.

William Henley, fully William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

Dawn | Day | Earth | Hazard | Joy | Longing | Woman | World |

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day And saw that gentle figure pass By London Bridge, his frequent way-- They little knew what man he was. The pointed beard, the courteous mien, The equal port to high and low, All this they saw or might have seen-- But not the light behind the brow! The doublet's modest gray or brown, The slender sword-hilt's plain device, What sign had these for prince or clown? Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. Yet 't was the King of England's kings! The rest with all their pomps and trains Are mouldered, half-remembered things-- 'T is he alone that lives and reigns!

Union Prayer Book NULL

Blessed are you Hashem, our God, King of the Universe Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates all. He Who illuminates the earth and those who dwell upon it, with compassion, and in goodness He renews every day, perpetually the work of Creation. How abundant are your works, Hashem, all of them with wisdom You made; full is the earth with Your possessions. You are the King Who was exalted in solitude from before creation, Who is praised, glorified, and upraised since days of old. God of eternity, with Your compassion that is abundant, be compassionate on us; Oh Master of our power, our rocklike stronghold; O shield of our salvation, Who is a stronghold for us. The blessed God, Who is great in knowledge, prepared and produced the rays of the sun; the Beneficent One that he fashioned provided honor for His name. Luminaries did he place all around His power. The leaders of his legions, holy ones who exalt the Almighty, constantly relate the honor of God and his sanctity. May you be blessed, and for the luminaries of light that You have made, may people glorify You forever. May You be blessed, our Rock, our King, and our Redeemer, creator of holy ones; may your name be praised forever, Our King, O fashioner of ministering angels; and Whose ministering angels all stand at the summit of the universe of the living God and King of the universe. They are all beloved; they are all flawless; they are all mighty; they are do with dread and reverence in holiness and purity, in song and hymn, and bless, praise, glorify, revere, sanctify, and declare the kingship of the Name of God, the King Who is great, Who is mighty and Who is awesome; holy is He. Then they all accept upon themselves the yoke of the sovereignty of heaven, from one another, and grant permission one to another, of Creation. As it is said: Give thanks to Him Who makes the great luminaries, for enduring forever is His kindness. A new light on Zion may You shine, and may we merit, all of us speedily, to benefit from its light. Blessed are You, Hashem Who fashions the luminaries.

Day | Grace | Law | Love |

William Blake

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languish’d air, By love are driv’n away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave; His face is fair as heav’n When springing buds unfold; O why to him was ’t giv’n Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love’s all-worshipp’d tomb, Where all love’s pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I’ll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!

Death | Earth | Heaven | Life | Life | Lord | Tears |

William Blake

When the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. ‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies.’ ‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all cover’d with sheep.’ ‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.’ The little ones leapèd and shoutèd and laugh’d And all the hills echoèd.

Age | Doubt | Envy | Eternity | God | Gold | Good | Grave | Grief | Heaven | Hell | Innocence | Joy | Judgment | Knowledge | Light | Little | Passion | Philosophy | Public | Revenge | Right | Soul | Teach | Truth | Woe | Woman | Words | World | Worth | God | Child | Old |

William Blake

Who is this, that with unerring step dares tempt the wilds, where only Nature’s foot hath trod? ’Tis Contemplation, daughter of the grey Morning! Majestical she steppeth, and with her pure quill on every flower writeth Wisdom’s name; now lowly bending, whispers in mine ear, ‘O man, how great, how little, thou! O man, slave of each moment, lord of eternity! seest thou where Mirth sits on the painted cheek? doth it not seem ashamed of such a place, and grow immoderate to brave it out? O what an humble garb true Joy puts on! Those who want Happiness must stoop to find it; it is a flower that grows in every vale. Vain foolish man, that roams on lofty rocks, where, ’cause his garments are swoln with wind, he fancies he is grown into a giant! Lo, then, Humility, take it, and wear it in thine heart; lord of thyself, thou then art lord of all. Clamour brawls along the streets, and destruction hovers in the city’s smoke; but on these plains, and in these silent woods, true joys descend: here build thy nest; here fix thy staff; delights blossom around; numberless beauties blow; the green grass springs in joy, and the nimble air kisses the leaves; the brook stretches its arms along the velvet meadow, its silver inhabitants sport and play; the youthful sun joys like a hunter roused to the chase, he rushes up the sky, and lays hold on the immortal coursers of day; the sky glitters with the jingling trappings. Like a triumph, season follows season, while the airy music fills the world with joyful sounds.’ I answered, ‘Heavenly goddess! I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of death; Misery builds over our cottage roofs, and Discontent runs like a brook. Even in childhood, Sorrow slept with me in my cradle; he followed me up and down in the house when I grew up; he was my schoolfellow: thus he was in my steps and in my play, till he became to me as my brother. I walked through dreary places with him, and in church-yards; and I oft found myself sitting by Sorrow on a tomb-stone.’

Earth | Light | Sorrow | Will |

Willa Cather, fully Willa Sibert Cather

Poppies On Ludlow Castle - Through halls of vanished pleasure, And hold of vanished power, And crypt of faith forgotten, A came to Ludlow tower. A-top of arch and stairway, Of crypt and donjan cell, Of council hall, and chamber, Of wall, and ditch, and well, High over grated turrets Where clinging ivies run, A thousand scarlet poppies Enticed the rising sun, Upon the topmost turret, With death and damp below,-- Three hundred years of spoilage,-- The crimson poppies grow. This hall it was that bred him, These hills that knew him brave, The gentlest English singer That fills an English grave. How have they heart to blossom So cruel and gay and red, When beauty so hath perished And valour so hath sped? When knights so fair are rotten, And captains true asleep, And singing lips are dust-stopped Six English earth-feet deep? When ages old remind me How much hath gone for naught, What wretched ghost remaineth Of all that flesh hath wrought; Of love and song and warring, Of adventure and play, Of art and comely building, Of faith and form and fray-- I'll mind the flowers of pleasure, Of short-lived youth and sleep, That drunk the sunny weather A-top of Ludlow keep.

Heart | Mockery | Power | Youth | Youth |

William Blake

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, Grey headed beadles walk’d before, with wands as white as snow, Till unto the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames’ waters flow. O what a multitude they seem’d, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies, they sit with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among. Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor; Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

Children | Heart | Light | Little | Play | Rest |

William Henley, fully William Ernest Henley

Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise, Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass, And own that, if her aspirates take their ease, She ever makes a point, in washing glass, Handling the engine, turning taps for tots, And countering change, and scorning what men say, Of posing as a dove among the pots, Nor often gives her dignity away. Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist; Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries From penny novels to amend her taste; And, having mopped the zinc for certain years, And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.

Friend | Play | Tears | War |

William Blake

I love the jocund dance, The softly breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden’s tongue. I love the laughing vale, I love the echoing hill, Where mirth does never fail, And the jolly swain laughs his fill. I love the pleasant cot, I love the innocent bow’r, Where white and brown is our lot, Or fruit in the mid-day hour. I love the oaken seat, Beneath the oaken tree, Where all the old villagers meet, And laugh our sports to see. I love our neighbours all, But, Kitty, I better love thee; And love them I ever shall; But thou art all to me.

Harmony | Virtue | Virtue |

William Blake

I Fear'd the fury of my wind Would blight all blossoms fair and true; And my sun it shin’d and shin’d, And my wind it never blew. But a blossom fair or true Was not found on any tree; For all blossoms grew and grew Fruitless, false, tho’ fair to see.

Beauty | Heaven | Love | Soul | Tears | Will | Beauty |

William Blake

To be or not to be Of great capacity, Like Sir Isaac Newton, Or Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death— I’d rather be Sutton! 2 For he did build a house For agèd men and youth, With walls of brick and stone; He furnish’d it within With whatever he could win, And all his own. He drew out of the Stocks His money in a box, And sent his servant To Green the Bricklayer, And to the Carpenter; He was so fervent. The chimneys were threescore, The windows many more; And, for convenience, He sinks and gutters made, And all the way he pav’d To hinder pestilence. Was not this a good man— Whose life was but a span, Whose name was Sutton— As Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death, Or Sir Isaac Newton?

Father | Grief | Joy | Man | Mother | Pity | Sorrow | Tears |

William Blake

Songs of Innocence (Introduction) - Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: ‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’ So I piped with merry cheer. ‘Piper, pipe that song again;’ So I piped; he wept to hear. ‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer:’ So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. ‘Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.’ So he vanish’d from my sight, And I pluck’d a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain’d the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

Angels | Comfort | Darkness | Day | Death | Eternal | Family | Grave | Heaven | Joy | Light | Little | Mother | Nature | Silence | Sin | Sorrow | Soul | Sound | Space | Spirit | Tears | Thinking | Woman | World | Youth | Youth |