Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.
To thee only God granted A heart ever new: To all always open; To all always true.
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.
We, in some unknown Power's employ, Move on a rigorous line; Can neither, when we will, enjoy, Nor, when we will, resign.
Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself, loses his misery.
Yes: in the sea of life enisld, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone.
Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the citys jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar.
We cannot kindle when we will The fire that in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides; But tasks, in hours of insight willed, Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.
Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings, By contemplation of diviner things.
I keep saying, Shakspeare, Shakspeare, you are as obscure as life is.
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.
However, if I shall live to be eighty I shall probably be the only person left in England who reads anything but newspapers and scientific publications.
It is important, therefore, to hold fast to this: that poetry is at bottom a criticism of life; that the greatness of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life to the question: How to live.
A beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his luminous wings in vain.
Coleridge, poet and philosopher wrecked in a mist of opium.