For most men (till by losing rendered sager), Will back their own opinions by a wager
The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppressed with odds, Are touched with a desire to shield and save:-- A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity; even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind.
It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship
The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!
I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep: And yet a third of Life is passed in sleep.
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
There was a general whisper, toss, and wiggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.
There's nothing in the world like etiquette In kingly chambers, or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress
Words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
In solitude, when we are least alone.
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
I by no means rank poetry high in the scale of intelligence -this may look like affectation but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake
I wish he would explain his explanation